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BALLADS 

PATRrOTIC SROJVIANTIG 



CLINTON SCOLLARD 



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Book- 



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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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BALLADS 



PATRIOTIC &' ROMANTIC 



By 
CLINTON SCOLLARD 



I 



NEW YORK 

LAURENCE J. GOMME 

I916 



/. 



^^'^"l^."^^ 



COPYRIGHT, 1916 
BY LAURENCE J. GOMME 



/ 






NOV 28 1916 



)CI.A445815 



NOTE 

Mr. Clinton Scollard acknowledges with 
thanks the courtesy of the Editors of the various 
Periodicals, in which the majority of these poems 
have appeared, in giving him permission to 
reprint. 



CONTENTS 

PATRIOTIC BALLADS 

The Drum of Lexington 3 

Wayne at Stony Point 5 

The Ride of Tench Tilghman 10 

Old Hickory 13 

Ballad of John Barry 15 

Chant of the Mohawk 17 

The Scythe Tree 21 

Ballad of Lieutenant Miles 23 

On an American Soldier of Fortune Slain in 

France 25 

Song for Memorial Day 27 

A Song for Flag Day 29 

ROMANTIC BALLADS 

The Last Dream of Attila 33 

The Inn of the Five Chimneys . 38 

Onota the White Doe 41 

Muriel of the Tower 45 

By the Turret Stair 48 

Guiraut the Troubadour 50 

A Ballad of Hallowmass 53 

The Blue Arras 57 

C v] 



CONTENTS 

The Mosque of the Sultan 61 

Ballad of Achmed Pasha 64 

BaUad of the Eve of Yule 67 

THE LURE OF THE ORIENT 

Allah il Allah 73 

Out of Babylon 75 

A Desert Song 77 

Al Mamoun 79 

There was an Arch at Banias 81 

The Tomb of Bizzos 82 

A Syrian Memory 83 

Moonlight in the Desert 84 

In the Grand Bazaar 85 

A NHe Night 87 

Stars Over Egypt 88 

Flowing Waters 89 

The Miser 90 

Syrian Love Song 91 

At Samaria . ' 92 

The Winds of Lebanon 93 

A Desert Vision 94 

Tyrian Dyes 95 

Off Chios 96 

A Prayer Carpet 97 

The Whisper of the Sands 99 

Flowers 100 

C vi ] 



CONTENTS 

THE LYRIC QUEST 

The Flutes of April 105 

The Wonder Worker 107 

Winter in the Marsh 108 

The Crocus Flame 110 

April Music 112 

The Voice 114 

Vintage 116 

A Vagrant 117 

My Cathedral 119 

May Magic 121 

The Eternal Presence 122 

The Lute Player 123 

Divinity 124 

Truant Feet 125 

At the Grave of Poe 126 

Workers 128 

Wander Song 129 

Harmonies 130 

Spendthrifts 131 

Song in March 132 

The Cup 133 

Pussy Willows 134 

Twelfth Night Song 135 

Soul to Body 136 

Sunflowers 137 

[ vii ] 



CONTENTS 

The Heights 138 

May by Avon-Side 139 

Beauty 141 

A Voyager 142 

A Young Poet 143 

Twilight Song 144 

The Quiet Wood 145 

Omens 146 

An Autumn Pilgrim 147 

Reward 149 

The Mystery 150 

Altars 151 

Who Knows the Master Maker's Mind .... 152 

Honeycombs 153 

The Playhouse of Dreams 154 

Ships 155 

Oracles 156 

I Have Seen Beauty 158 

The Apiary 159 

The Call of the Hills 160 

Life 161 

The Fisherman 162 

An Autumn Song 164 

Dust 165 

At the Falling of the Leaf 166 

Dusk 167 

Autumn in the Beech Wood 168 

[ viii ] 



CONTENTS 

Sanctuary 169 

Now No Bird Sings 170 

The Great Carbuncle 171 

Soli Deo Gloria , 173 

The Wind Beguileth All 175 

Daffodil Time 177 

Wooing Song 178 

Strawberries 180 

At Darley Dale 181 



[ix ] 



To deities of gauds and goldy 
Land of our Fathers^ do not how! 

But unto those beloved of old 
Bend thou the brow! 

Austere they were of front and form; 

Rigid as iron in their aim; 
Yet in them pulsed a blood as warm 

And pure as flame; — 

Honor, whose foster-child is Truth; 

Unselfishness in place and plan; 
Justice, with melting heart of ruth; 

And Faith in man! 

Give these thy worship, then no fears 
Of future foes need fright thy soul! 

Triumphant thou shall mount the years 
Toward thy high goal! 



PATRIOTIC BALLADS 



THE DRUM OF LEXINGTON 

But yesterday I saw the historic drum 

WTiich William Dimon beat, 

Upon that fateful far-off April morn. 

Along each winding street, 

And on the memorable Green of Lexington, 

Bidding the patriots come 

And face the banded hosts of tyranny; 

At the reveille was a nation born 

Pledged to the sacred rights of Liberty. 

Now 'neath the rays of the same vernal sun 

Peace broods about the Green, 

But it remembers yet, 

Girdled with stately elms memorial. 

The hurtle of the deadly musket-ball. 

And how its sod was wet 

With sacrificial blood — the whole sad, ruthless scene ! 

Would that the drum of Lexington again 

Might sound its summoning call, 

Sound from the rocky coast of Maine 

Where Agimenticus, inland, fronts the seas, 

To where the long trades sweep and swell and fall 

Round the Floridian keys! 

[3] 



Aye, sound from Puget, on which Shasta's crown 
Majestically looks down, 
E'en to the borders of that stricken land 
Beyond the brown coils of the Rio Grande! 

Have we grown sleek with sloth? 

Sloughed the old virile spirit, taken on 

Abasement for a garment? Are we loath 

To rouse us, and to don 

The rapt heroic valor once again 

That girdled us when men indeed were men? 

Caution and doubt and fear seem subtly crept 

Upon us, and, inept, 

We stumble, falter, palter, and we need 

Not the smooth word, but the swift, searching deed. 

If bleed we must, then rather let us bleed 

Than sit inglorious, rich in all the things 

Save those which honor brings! 

Now every slope of our dear land is fair 
Beneath the azure of the April air; 
The impatient loam is ready for the seed. 
But we? Take heed, take heed. 
My brothers! And O you, brave wraith 
Of dauntlessness and faith. 
You, William Dimon, come! 
Come, sound the old reveille on your drum, 
The drum of Lexington, 
And make us all, in steadfast purpose, one! 

[4] 



WAYNE AT STONY POINT 

This is a tale to tell your sons 

Of the craggy steeps that lie 
Where the tides of Hudson sweep and swing 
South by the Ferry of the King, 
And of those who did a dauntless thing 

On the noon of a night gone by. 

*Twas Washington sat in his tent. 

And he scanned a writing well; 
And it was thus that the writing ran, — 
"I, Anthony Wayne, am ever your man; 
If you'll but plot, if you'll but plan, 

I'll storm the heights of Hell!" 

The General smiled his slow grave smile 

That boded the foeman ill; 
And, as he bent his head and wrote. 
The lyric trill of the tawny-throat 
Kept time, now near and now remote, 

To the scratching of his quill. 

For it was the heart of the summertime, 

And the Highlands surged away. 
In gleaming billows of verdure dressed, 

[5] 



Great of girth and broad of breast, 
Vale on vale and crest on crest, 
Under the golden day. 

It was the heart of the summertime, 

Suspense filled all the air, 
For armed men lurked amid the trees 
About Torn Mountain's rugged knees, 
And where Dean Forest swayed in the breeze 

Back from the Mount of the Bear! 

And they were men of the north and south, 

Band on resolute band, 
Men of the Massachusetts line. 
Men who had fought at Brandywine, 
Men stanch as the Carolina pine. 

And the flower of Maryland. 

'Twas Anthony Wayne sat in his tent 
With his hand cupped for his chin. 
His thoughts afar where an ensign flew 
From the rocky peak of a Point he knew, 
When a messenger, clad in buff and blue. 
From the droop of the dusk strode in. 

He gave the leader a swift salute. 
As he stood there, heel to heel; 
"A letter, sir!" and the eyes of Wayne 
Lit as the skies do after rain, 

[6] 



And his heart was tuned to a martial strain 
As he broke the letter's seal. 

"To-morrow," he read, "at the noon of night. 

Be this the day and the hour!" 
And his laugh rang out as the laugh of one 
Who sees, with the first bright beam of the sun, 
The chrismal crown of glory won, 

And the dawn of victory flower. 

Morn on a sickle beach of sand 

That a swerve of the Hudson made; 
And hne on line, and rank on rank. 
Under the dip of the shelving bank. 
Powdered and shaven, fore and flank, 

The troops upon parade! 

"Forward!" then through the stealthy noon 

They marched at a measured pace; 
The woodland paths at a swinging stride 
They trod, and Donderberg's frowning side, 
Till they came, at the edge of the twilight-tide, 

To the vale of Devil's Race. 

Then each man shaped him a white cockade 

That the plan might have no flaw. 
While the hours crept by, and naught was heard 
Save only the breath of a whispered word. 
Or the frog's low croak, or the breeze that stirred 

0*er the bay of Haverstraw. 

[7] 



No beacon shone in the vast of the vault, 

And there was no bugle blown, 
When out from the shroud of beech and pine 
Onward they moved in a silent line, 
And the General gave them the countersign — 

**The forfs our own! — our own!" 

It was file by left and file by right. 

And a narrow file to the fore. 
And there was Febiger, gallant Dane, 
rieury and Butler, bold and fain. 
And over them all "Mad Anthony Wayne," 

The chief of the fighting corps. 

Through the strangling grip of the marsh's mire 

With never a pause they pressed. 
And though the sound of the foeman's fire 
Rang like the strings of a battle-lyre. 
Higher they fought their way and higher 

Till they won to the cragged crest. 

Hand to hand, and brand to brand. 

They grappled, with grisly scars. 
Till the banner that stood for the king and crown 
From the peak of Stony Point came down. 
And there floated the flag of new renown, — 

Our flag of the Stripes and Stars. 

Though smitten sore by a hurtling ball 
As they upward charged from the fen, 

[8] 



Through the flame-rent murk of the midnight pall, 
And the clamor and stress of the conflict-thrall, 
"Bear me on!" was their leader's call; 
*'I would die at the head of my men!" 

But not his to die, and he heard the cry 
From bastion and breach back thrown, 
A sound that echoes and triumphs still 
From the crest of that memory-haunted hill, 
The exultant cry, with its olden thrill, — 
" The fort's our ovm! — our own!" 

Our own! aye, every league of land 
From the east to the western main! 

Our own ! — and may we never forget. 

Till the light of Liberty's sun be set. 

His dauntless deed, and our deathless debt 
To men like Anthony Wayne! 



[9] 



THE RIDE OF TENCH TILGHMAN 

They've marched them out of old Yorktown, the 

vanquished red-coat host, — 
The grenadiers and fusihers, Great Britain's pride and 

boast; 
They've left my Lord Cornwallis sitting gnawing at 

his nails, 
With pale chagrin from brow to chin that grim defeat 

prevails. 
Their banners cased, in sullen haste their pathway 

they pursue 
Between the lilied lines of France, the boys in Buff 

and Blue; 
At last their arms away are cast, with muttering and 

frown, 
The while the drums roll out the tune 

The World Turned Upside Down! 

It's up. Tench Tilghman, you must ride, 

Yea, you must ride straightway. 
And bear to all the countryside 

The glory of this day, 
Crying amain the glad refrain, 

This word by field and town, — 
"Cornwallis' ta'en! Cornwallis' ta'en! 

The World Turned Upside Down!'* 

L 10 ] 



Roused Williamsburgh to hear the hoofs 

That loud a tattoo played, 
While back from doorways, windows, roofs. 

Rang cheers from man and maid. 
His voice, a twilight clarion, spoke 

By slow Pamunkey's ford; 
In Fredericksburg to all the folk 

'Twas like a singing sword. 

It thrilled while Alexandria slept 

By brown Potomac's shore. 
And, like a forest jBre, it swept 

The streets of Baltimore. 
With it Elk Tavern's rafters shook 

As though the thunder rolled; 
It stirred the brigs off Marcus Hook 

From lookout to the hold. 

When midnight held the autumn sky, 

Again and yet again 
It echoed through the way called High 

Within the burg of Penn. 
The city watch adjured in vain, — 

"Cease! cease! you tipsy clown!" 
Flung Tilghman out, — "Cornwallis' ta'en! 

The World Turned Upside Down!'' 

Where wrapt in virtuous repose 
The head of Congress lay, 

[11] 



A clamor welled as though there rose 

The Trump of Judgment Day. 
*What madness' this?" fierce called McKean, 

In white nightcap and gown; 
The answer came, — "Cornwallis' ta'en! 

The World Turned Upside Down!'' 

Then forth into the highways poured 

A wild, exultant rout, 
And till the dawn there swelled and soared 

Tench Tilghman's victory shout; 
Then bells took up the joyous strain. 

And cannon roared to drown 
The triumph cry, — "Cornwallis' ta'en! 

The World Turned Upside Down!'' 

In dreams, Tench Tilghman, still you ride, 

As in the days of old. 
And mth your horse's swinging stride 

Your patriot tale is told; 
It rings by river, hill, and plain. 

Your memory to crown; — 
'Cornwallis' ta'en! Cornwallis' ta'en! 

The World Turned Upside Down!'* 



[12] 



OLD HICKORY 

A BALLAD FOR ANDREW JACKSON's DAY 

This is the day when we honor ''Old Hickory,^ 
Honor him, aye, for the name that he bore! 

Fierce as a fighter, and yet above trickery, 
Virile and valiant and leal to the core! 

Forth from Jamaica came faring the foemen. 
Sixty stout sail of them, ships of the hne. 

Who were to combat them? Patriot yeomen. 
Men of the forest as stanch as the pine! 

Threading the bayou-ways, on pressed the barges. 
Ensigns a-flutter Hke birds on the wing; 

Sounded the cheers as they landed their charges. 
While the bands echoed with "God Save the King!" 

Haply they thought they were out for a holiday, 
They who filed forward so proud into view; 

Sooth, but they found it was far from a jolly day 
Ere the morn's frolic of fighting was through! 

For there was one who had thrilled with his bravery, 
For there was one who had filled with his fire 

All of his men, and they struck at enslavery 
With the old Concord and Lexington ire. 

[13] 



Pakenham might rage, and the cannon might crack 
again, 
Vain was his valor, our praise to it be! 
Thrice they made onset, and thrice they quailed back 
again, 
Thrice they reeled backward, then slunk to the sea! 

Never since then has the land of our motherhood 
Known the encroach of hostility's tread; 

Now we clasp hands with past foes in fair brotherhood 
Over the gulf of a century dead. 

This is the day when we honor ''Old Hickory,^* 
Honor hirriy aye, for the name that he bore! 

Fierce as a fighter, and yet above trickery. 
Virile and valiant and leal to the core! 



[14] 



BALLAD OF JOHN BARRY 

FATHER OF THE AMERICAN NAVY 

John Barry was a Commodore in darksome times of trial; 

(No doubt they called him ''Jack" upon the sea!) 
He raked the foemen aft and fore, of that there's no 
denial; 

''Jack" Barry is the Commodore for me! 

Upon the little Lexington, the Stars and Stripes 
a-flying, 
He put out from the Delaware upon a winter's day; 
"Oh, there'll be fun for fourteen gun!" sooth, that 
was his replying 
To those who came to cheer him on the morn he 
sailed away! 

Ah, there was snowy smother on the wild Atlantic 
surges. 

And long chill watches underneath the stars! 

The flaw it blew, the scud it flew, off bleak Virginian 

verges. 

But naught could cool the valor of those gaUant 

Yankee tars. 

And then at last there dawned an hour when in the 
south was sighted 

[15] 



A bark that flung the Union Jack upon the April 

breeze; 
"Lay to!" exclaimed the Commodore, "I'm sure 

they'll be delighted 
To meet another Lexington, this time upon the 

seas!" 

Then there was fun for fourteen gun, all in the April 
weather, 
For they smashed her and they gashed her, masts 
and spars; 
And through the windy homeward run they held her 
fast in tether. 
The first to strike the Union Jack before the Stripes 
and Stars. 

Then wrote my great Lord Howe to him, with words 
as sweet as honey: 
" Come ! — here are golden guineas, and a stanch 
ship of the line!" 
Sent Barry back, "I would not come for all your 
Judas money, 
Nor for all your British navy that's afloat upon the 
brine!" 

John Barry was a Commodore in darksome times of trial; 

(No doubt they called him ''Jack'' upon the sea!) 
He raked the foemen aft and fore, of that there's no 
denial; 
''Jack" Barry is the Commodore for me! 

C 16 ] 



CHANT OF THE MOHAWK 

Out of the brooding midnight ^ 

Out of the peering morny 
Out of the spacious noonday, 

These mystic words were born; 
As with the rush of triumph. 

Rhythm and rune, they came. 
Touched with the torch of wonder. 

Swept with the wings of flame. 

AND THE WATERS OF THE MOHAWK SPAKE: 

We are the singing children, — 

Lilt and ripple and run, — 
Wrought of the opal dewdrops. 

Shaped of the rain and sun; 
Sprung from the gray cloud-streamers, 

Pulse of the under earth, 
Rousing the roots of being, 

Kindling the shoots of birth; 
Lyric, loving and lavish. 

Free as the wind is free. 
We yield our wealth to the Hudson, 

And the Hudson yields to the sea! 

[17] 



AND THE HILLS OF THE MOH-\AVK SPAKE: 

We are the heights God moulded, 

We are the heights He planned, 
In days when the world was virgin. 

And marvel lay on the land; 
Still on our crests the glory 

Rests as it did of old; 
Still on our slopes gleams beauty, — 

Crimson and green and gold; 
Now through our open gateways 

Opulent commerce pours; 
We are the ancient genii 

Guarding the Mohawk shores! 

AND THE MEADOWS OF THE MOHAWK SPAKE! 

We are the long low levels, 

Reaches of fertile loam. 
Lush at the kiss of springtime, 

Rich when the year goes home; 
Ours are the breadth and bounty, — 

Span upon sweeping span, — 
That, through the harvest-magic. 

Work for the weal of man. 
Clothed with the ^sinter's ermine. 

Sown with the summer's flowers. 
Ours are thy garths, Oneida! 

Herkimer's fields are ours! 



[18] 



AND THE VOICES OF THE PAST SPAKE: 

We are the wraiths long gathered 

Into the bourn of sleep, 
Into the aisles of silence 

Deep as the dusk is deep; — 
Men of the smoking teepees, 

Of arrow and bow and spear; 
Ranger and cabin-builder. 

Rover and pioneer. 
We are the patriot yeomen 

Of brawn and bravery 
WTio faced the tide of conflict 

At red Oriskany; 
We are the men who travailed 

To shape and save the State, 
WTio gave their strength and substance 

Ungrudging long and late. 
The leash of love still holds us; 

Our spirits would not roam; 
Here, by the hallowed Mohawk, 

Forevermore is home! 

AXD THE VOICES OF THE PRESENT SPAELEI 

We are the heirs of freedom, 

The sons of rugged sires, 
WTio reared in the wild waste places 

The shrines for their worship-fires; 
The Dutch, the Celt, and the Saxon, 

Of the old stanch wander-strain, 
[19] 



We are stringing our gem-like cities 

On the Mohawk's silver chain. 
Gyve — there is none to bind us; 

Fear — there is none to thrall; 
Only the wide horizon, 

Only the sky's blue wall! 
Ours are the scenes elysian 

That gird us, fair and free; 
Ours are the vasts of vision 

Into the great To-Be! 
Ours is the noblest banner 

The sun has seen unfurled. 
First flung upon God's pure breezes 

In this garden of the world! 

Out of the brooding midnight^ 

Out of the peering morn. 
Out of the spacious noonday, 

These mystic words were horn; 
As with the rush of triumph, 

Rhythm and rune, they came, 
Touched with torch of wonder. 

Swept with the wings of flame! 



[20] 



THE SCYTHE TREE 

Farmer Johnson strode from the field 

With an eager step that was long and lithe; 
The summer sun, like a blazing shield, 
Burned on high, in the hazy sky. 
A forked bough, as he hastened by, 
Seemed a fitting place for his scythe. 
So he swung it up in the balsam tree; 
*' There let it hang till I come!" said he. 

Then he homeward hied him, humming a tune, 

But he heard a word at the farmstead gate 
Under the fervid heat of the noon, 
A ringing call to each volunteer, 
For all the land was alive with fear. 
Doubt and fear for the country's fate. 
So Farmer Johnson shouldered his gun, 
And left his scythe to the rain and sun. 

Fifty years have sped since then. 

Fifty hastening years and more; 
By southern wood and brake and fen 

Faithful he fought, and in gallant wise, 
Fought and died, and now he lies 
By the far off Carolina shore, 

[21] 



Where the long trades blow, and the grasses wave 
Over the loam of his sunken grave. 

"There let it hang till I come!" he said 

Of the scythe he left in the balsam tree, 
And they let it hang, as the fleet days fled, 

Till the small bole, fed by the kindly earth, 
Clasped the scythe with a mothering girth. 
To-day whoever so will may see 
The starry emblem of freedom flow 
Over the tip of the scythe below. 

He gave his all, and he never came. 

He that was strong and young and lithe. 
But the balsam boughs seem to name his name, 
Name his name both late and long 
To the tuneful beat of a summer song. 
To the undulant sway-song of the scythe; 
And the banner swings to the rhythmic bars, 
The banner he loved, the Stripes and Stars. 



[ 22 ] 



BALLAD OF LIEUTENANT MILES 

When you speak of dauntless deeds, 
^Yhen you tell of stirring scenes, 

Tell this story of the isles 

Where the endless summer smiles, — 

Tell of young Lieutenant Miles 
In the far-off Philippines! 

'Twas the Santa Ana fight ! — 

All along the Tagal line 
From the thickets dense and dire 
Gushed the fountains of their fire; 
You could mark their rifles' ire. 

You could hark their bullets whine. 

Little wonder there was pause! 

Some were wounded, some were dead; 
"Call Lieutenant Miles!" He came. 

In his eyes a fearless flame. 
"Yonder block-house is our aim!" 
The battalion leader said. 

"You must take it — how you will; 

You must break this damned spell!" 
"Volunteers!" cried Miles. 'Twas vain, 
For that narrow tropic lane 
[23] 



'Twixt the bamboo and the cane 
Was a very lane of hell. 

There were five stood forth at last; 

God above, but they were men! 
"Come!'* — exultantly he saith! — 
Did they falter? Not a breath! 
Down the path of hurtling death 

The Lieutenant led them then. 

Two have fallen — now a third ! 

Forward dash the other three; 
In the onrush of that race 
Ne'er a swerve nor stay of pace. 
And the Tagals — dare they face 

Such a desperate company? 

Panic gripped them by the throat, - 

Every Tagal rifleman; 
And as though they seemed to see 
In those charging foemen three 
An avenging destiny, 

Fierce and fast and far they ran. 

So a salvo for the six! 

So a round of ringing cheers! 
Heroes of the distant isles 
Where the endless summer smiles, - 
Gallant young Lieutenant Miles 

And his valiant volunteers! 
[24] 



ON AN AMERICAN SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 
SLAIN IN FRANCE 

You, who sought the great adventure 

That the bhnd fates hold in store, 
Have beyond our mortal censure 

Passed forever, evermore; 
Passed beyond all joy or sighing, 

Blush of eve or flush of dawn, 
Who beneath the sod are lying 

In the forest of Argonne. 

What it was that lured and led you 

Who shall venture, who shall say? 
From the valley of the dead you 

Speak not, question as we may; 
Yet somehow our thoughts have flowed to 

The remembrance of the debt 
That our land has so long owed to 

Rochambeau and Lafayette. 

You, bereft of earthly raiment, 

Brave as they and theirs were brave, 

Have made sacrificial payment 
For whate'er their valor gave. 

As they came, with aid unsparing. 
When both fears and foes were rife, 
[25] 



So you went with dreams of daring 
And the offering of your life. 

We, who cHng to freedom, hail you, 

Son of never vanquished sires, 
Knowing courage did not fail you 

When you faced the battle fires; 
Knowing that no vaunt of Vandal 

Daunted your determined aim. 
Though your breath failed as a candle 

'Neath a flash of morning flame. 

All the brown Atlantic beaches 

From far Fundy to the Keys, 
All the billowy prairie reaches 

Sweeping westward toward the seas. 
Mount Katahdin and Mount Rainier, 

Lake and river great of girth, 
Greet your spirit, bold disdainer 

Of the tyrannies of earth! 

Thrones shall crumble, kings shall perish, 

Howsoe'er their legions strive, 
But the liberties men cherish, 

They shall triumph and survive. 
You, blithe wraith, shall be beholder 

Of the flowering of that dawn. 
Though your pulseless clay may moulder 

In the forest of Argonne! 
[26] 



SONG FOR MEMORIAL DAY 

Let us to-day, 

Who breathe the final sweetness of the May, 

Bring the enwreathed bay 

For those who trod the sacrificial way! 

O sacred sod, 

And O endeared dust, 

Thus would we keep our trust, — 

Our trust which is remembrance, and the just 

Tribute to those who fought and found their God! 

Not with Love's melting eyes 

Bending above them did they drop the mould 

Of their mortality, and watch unfold 

The bright celestial skies; 

The face they saw 

Was red-envisaged Battle, with the awe 

Of thunders round about him wide unrolled; 

Not upon fair white wings, but wings of flame, 

The summoning vision came. 

In many a garden-close 
The year's first rose 
Opens its perfumed petals to the day; 

[27] 



Then twine these with the bay, 
These tokens redolent, that they may be 
As fires about the shrine of Memory, 
Making perennially sweet the airs 
Whereon are borne our prayers! 

Our prayers! — Yea, let us lift them! Those that sleep 

Have won the last great conflict, gained the crown 

Of radiance and renown. 

Leaving us warders of their heritage; 

Be our beseechment, then, that we may keep 

The land for which they bled 

(Loyal and laureled dead!) 

Unsullied as their courage, a white Hght 

Of peace and purity in all men's sight 

For the unfolding age! 



[28] 



A SONG FOR FLAG DAY 

Spirits of Drake and Key, inspire my song 
With something of the vital, Hving fire 

That thrilled you when your fingers swept along 
Our country's earlier lyre! 

For I, in these red days of battle flame, 

When half the stricken world is mad with Mars, 

And lilied Peace seems a forgotten name, 
Would sing the Stripes and Stars! 

Although begot in strife, and first unfurled 
O'er rude Fort Stanwix in the wilderness. 

Our flag before the wide eyes of the world 
Stands not for storm and stress. 

Though we may glory that it waved on high 
When cheers at Yorktown rang from lip to lip. 

That it heard Lawrence's immortal cry 
Of "Don't give up the ship!" 

That o'er Chapultepec's stark heights it tossed 

When valor upward urged to victory. 
And led, when an ill-fated cause was lost. 

With Sherman to the sea; 

[29] 



And that it fluttered proudly at the peak 

Above the challengmg cannon's rage and roar, 

When Dewey swept defiant through the reek 
Past stern Corregidor; 

Nor stripe nor clustered star has ever shone 
Save but for freedom, for the broader birth 

Of liberty, — the dearer, clearer dawn 
Of brotherhood on earth. 

Wave, then, O banner! May thy mission be 
To heal the grievous wounds, the woeful scars, 

Triumphant over wrong and tyranny, 
Beloved Stripes and Stars! 



[30] 



ROMANTIC BALLADS 



THE LAST DREAM OF ATTILA 

From the wild Carpathian passes the wind of the 

dusk blew down. 
And the woven leaves of the oak trees, that seemed 

as a crimson crown 
For the crestward sweep of the mountains, were 

tangled and tossed and swirled 
Till they burned like a second sunset o'er the breadth 

of the brooding world. 

And the wind of the dusk made murmur round the 

palace doors of the king, 
All else held the seal of silence as tense as a muted 

string. 
For the monarch was sunk in slumber, and woe to 

the reckless one 
Who roused from his visions of conquest grim Attila 

the Hun! 

Then a voice cried out from a chamber where the 

air hung heavy with musk, 
Then a voice cried out through the stillness above 

the wind of the dusk, 
"Bring wine! bring wine!" and a beaker was brimmed 

with the juice of the sun, 
And borne by the maid Ildico to Attila the Hun. 

[ 33 ] 



She was his latest handmaid, supple, and fair of 

face 
As the bloom of the oleander seen in the vales of 

Thrace; 
She was his latest handmaid, and past the cedarn 

doors. 
Bolted with bronze, and over heaped rugs upon 

earthen floors. 
With the tread of the fawn of the forest, she bore the 

beaker in 
To the scourge of God's trembling nations sprawled 

on a leopard skin. 

Brow that bulked like a bastion above rolling eyes 

half bleared; 
Sinewy hands and hairy that clutched at a scrawny 

beard; 
Lips that were gross and flaccid, murmuring, mut- 
tering; 
Body of brawn relaxed, such was this brute of a 

king ! 
And he raised the swimming chalice, and he drained 

it to the lees. 
While the light of mirth and malice faded by slow 

degrees 
From his turbulent, tawny features as fades day's 

dying gleam. 
And he spake to the maid Ildico out of his drunken 

dream. 

[34] 



*'I was the one appointed to sear with sanguine scars; 
I was the one anointed, and girt with the sword of 

Mars. 
I ranged, with my gory vanguards, from the Volga 

to the Rhine, 
And the rumor of my ravage shook the wall of 

Constantine. 
I was a tide of terror from the Black to the Baltic 

Sea, 
And the tramp of my hosts of triumph rocked the 

plains of Lombardy. 
Aquileia and Concordia I ground into ashes and 

dust, 
And the blood of the Paduan people in my wine- 
press was as must; 
But, howsoe'er he may vanquish, man's day will 

have its close, 
And the darkness gather about him, the night no 

mortal knows. 
I feel the clutch of its shadows about me coil and 

creep, 
The folds of a power supernal that shall wrap me 

in endless sleep. 
But out of the gloom there rises, like the sun in 

the morning sky, 
A king who shall come hereafter, one far greater 

than I; 
For where I spared he shall slaughter, and where 

I saved he shall slay; 

[35] 



His deeds shall kindle the darkness; his doom shall 

blacken the day; 
But I shall share in his glory, his name shall be 

linked with mine, 
And go down through all the ages as a symbol and 

a sign!" 

Then the fair handmaid Ildico slipped out as she 

slipped in. 
Leaving the scourge of the nations sprawled on his 

leopard skin 
Where, stark in death, they found him when the 

darkness had withdrawn. 
And down from the mountain passes stole in the 

wind of the dawn. 
Then there wavered the sound of wailing far over 

moor and weald. 
And they bore the bulk of his body forth on a massy 

shield; 
And they shaped for his clay a casket of iron and 

silver and gold. 
And they set in his clenched fingers the sword of 

Mars to hold; 
And for sepulture they fashioned a grave that was 

deep and wide. 
Heaped with the sack of cities, of many a kingdom- 
side; 
And score upon score of captives they slew, lest 

he alone 

[36] 



Fare into the outer vastness, into the great un- 
known! 

And that was the end of horror, aye, that was the 

end of dread! 
Yet we to-day remember the prophecy of the dead. 
There are wings as the wings of vultures sweeping 

athwart the sun, 
And the world knows anew the menace of Attila 

the Hun! 



1916. 



[37] 



THE INN OF THE FIVE CHIMNEYS 

It had five chimneys^ had that inn. 

As every man has senses five, 

The while he hides upon earth alive. 
And Rumor said it was soiled with sin! 

The clapboards, warped and gray, showed stams 

Of more than an hundred autumn rains; 

No birds sang about the eaves. 

Only the leaves, only the leaves. 

Murmured in a minor weird, 

As though they shrank, as though they feared, — 

Feared some blind, inscrutable thing, 

And ever they kept on murmuring. 

Upon the window-panes the dust 

Was lined and cracked like a wizened crust, 

A grimy crust that none would touch 

Unless he felt gaunt famine's clutch. 

Mould made dank and dark each door. 

And every lintel and every floor 

With the drifting silt of the years was deep; 

And shapes that crawl and writhe and creep 

Traced strange arabesques over all. 

It had five chimneys, had that inn. 
And Rumor said it was soiled with sin! 

[38] 



Above, in the long, low dancing-hall. 
You could hear the death-watch in the wall, 
A sound that seemed to jibe and mock 
Like the eerie tick of a ghostly clock. 
In every corner and crevice hung 
Spider-tapestries that clung 
To the crumbling mortar, — grim festoons. 
And the wraiths of ancient rigadoons 
Floated faintly, as though unseen 
Fiddlers fingered the chorded bow, 
And maskers, antic of garb and mien, 
Flitted in sinuous to and fro. 

It had five chimneys, had that inn^ 
And Rumor said it was soiled with sin! 

And every chamber, wide and bare, 
Breathed on the dim and moated air 
Spectral echoings, — doubts and fears. 
Hates and loves of the parted years; 
And every hallway and every stair 
Creaked and groaned with the gruesome tread 
Of steps long silent, of those long dead, — 
Blithesome Youth, in its rainbow guise; 
Wrinkled Age, with its shrunken eyes; 
Honor, garbed in the mail of Trust; 
Poverty, Riches and slinking Lust! 
Oh, what a motley ! — vanished quite 
Into the vastnesses of night. 

[39] 



It had five chimneys, had that inn, 
And Rumor said it was soiled with sin! 

And so I left it standing still 

And stark by the crossroads under the hill, 

With its sagging roof and its rotting beams. 

And all of its tangled maze of dreams. 

But it holds me, yea, it haunts me yet, 

Like a hooded "sasion of Regret, 

Though I fain would say to it — "Be gone!" 

As to the night mists saith the dawn. 

And so I needs must let it dwell 

In memory, till some happy spell 

Shall bid it be invisible! 

Come, heahng spirit, and touch my soul. 
And make it sweet and sane and whole! 

It had five chimneys, had that inn. 
As every man has senses five. 
The while he bides upon earth alive. 

And Rumor said it was soiled with sin! 



[40] 



ONOTA THE WHITE DOE 

In the wood of the Silver Beeches 

Onota, the white doe, 

Wandered the forest reaches 

In the days of the long ago; 

Browsed where the aisles were brackened 

When the dusk or the dawning slackened, 

As white as the eddying snow 

That hides the crisped grass 

At the tide of Candlemas. 

As supple she was and slender 
As the arrowy hickory bole; 
And she had for her defender 
The love of the great All-Spirit 
That over the earth and near it 
Leans and broods and yearns 
If the red day-planet burns, 
Or night, with its shadowy stole, 
Is a balm for the bruised soul. 

As light of foot was she 
As the milkweed-down that drifts 
Over the meadow rifts 
When the torch of the maple tree 
[41] 



Is a beacon among the firs, — 
Is the autumn's beacon-fire, — 
And the lonely cricket chirrs 
Of the summer's spent desire. 

And never she had for foeman 

One of the bronzed bowmen 

Ranging the forest trail; 

Nay, for they ever deemed her 

Shielded and sacred; dreamed her 

Presence a happy omen 

Of the life that shall never fail, — 

A precious and pulsing part 

Of the Almighty Heart. 

Opal and rose and beryl 
In the wood of the Silver Beeches 
Was the season's varied flow, 
And never a sign of peril 
In all of the waving reaches 
Menaced the milk-white doe. 
Then (ah, the wanton woe!) 
When the blooms hung as a garland 
On the spires of the columbine. 
There fared from out of a far land 
O'er the barren wastes of the brine 
One who was fain to bring 
From his forest wandering, 
As a star plucked out of the star-land, 
Some trophy to his king. 
[42] 



And led by the feet of Fate, or 

Led by the thread of chance, 

He met with Wando the traitor, — 

Wando, the redman traitor, — 

(Evil hung on the hour!) 

And he heard the woodland story 

Like a strain of wild romance, 

Till he thought of naught but the glory 

Of slaying this forest flower. 

When over the Silver Beeches 
The moon was a golden targe. 
They thridded the silent reaches 
To a wood-pool's reedy marge; 
They crouched them long and low, 
(Ah, but the wanton woe!) 
Till out of the purple glooming. 
Like a water lily blooming. 
Stepped forth the milk-white doe. 

A crimson stain on the grasses; 
Reeds with a crimson dye, 
And on the wind that passes 
The thrill of a poignant cry, — 
A cry as of mortal pain; 
And never again, nay, never. 
With wax of the year or wane. 
Gather the days or sever, 
[43] 



Were seen those treacherous twain; 
Never, nay, never agam! 

But still 'neath the Silver Beeches, 
Fair and free and fain. 
In matin or vesper glow, 
(Thus say the men of the Faith) 
Though it be ghost or wraith, 
Fleet through the forest reaches 
Wanders the milk-white doe. 



[ 44 ] 



MURIEL OF THE TOWER 

"Love, the days are lone and long! 

Love, the nights are long and lone!" 
Thus m sob, and thus in song, 
Muriel made her moan. 

At her feet low crouched a hound 
Lifting great eyes piteously. 

And an ever eerie sound 
Surged up from the sea. 

Inland all the gorse was gold; 

Inland hawthorn boughs were gay; 
There was umber on the wold 

When he rode away. 

It was umber everywhere 

At the tide of Candlemas, 
Though 'twas Pentecostal air 

But to see him pass. 

"Mistress, in your arrased bower 

There are dainties, there is wine!" 
Nay — she tarried in the tower. 
Sunshine or moonshine. 
[45] 



In the donjon tower she sate, 
And the warder on the wall 

Felt her presence hke a fate. 
Watching over all. 

And the lilies in the moat, 
Sooth, they were not lovelier 

Than the rondure of her throat 
And the brow of her! 

Curlews flew against the sky 
With their graceful winnowing, 

Yet her never-closed eye 
Caught no glint of wing. 

Mistress, you are weary; — rest!" 
Plead her maids at even-glow; 

Still she hung upon the crest 
Where his spears would show, — 

Saying, "Take it not amiss 

That I guard 'gainst war's alarms.' 
But she thought her of his kiss. 

And his sheltering arms. 

Came an eve with amber hung, 
Fold upon resplendent fold. 

When a sudden pennon flung 
Rose against the gold. 
[46] 



And a trumpet's fall and swell 
Pierced the castle's deepest ward. 

Then the heart of Muriel 
Was a smitten chord. 

While the sea its ardors rang, 

"Clang!" ope swung the castle keep, 

And the patient hound upsprang 
Clamorous out of sleep. 

"Love, the days are lone and long; 

Love, the nights are long and lone!" 
Thus no more in sob and song 
Muriel made her moan. 

Nay, the hours all held their spell; 

Some fresh charm filled every hour, 
For the lady Muriel, — 

Muriel of the tower. 



[47] 



BY THE TURRET STAIR 

(a.d. 1400) 

Run, run, little page, tell your lady fair 
That her lover waits by the turret stair. 
That the stars are out, and the night wind blows 
Up the garden path from the crimson rose! 
Run, run, little page! 

Haste, haste, little page, ere the round moon's rim 
Peeps over the edge of the forest dim. 
And the woK-hound bays from his kennel deep, 
And the warder peers from the castle keep! 
Haste, haste, little page! 

Soft, soft, little page, lest her sire may guess. 
By her look of fear and of fond distress. 
That he hides in the night by the turret stair 
Who would steal from her bower the flower so fair! 
Soft, soft, little page! 

List, list, little page! Did the night- jar cry, 
Or was it the low wind murmuring by? 
And was there the sound of a faint footfall 
Far away in the depths of the vaulted hall? 
List, list, little page! 
[48] 



See, see, little page, who, clad in white. 
Steals out of the door in the shadowy light! 
Is't an angel? aye, 'tis my lady fair. 
And she speeds to her love down the turret stair! 
See, see, little page! 

Farewell, little page, for away, away, 
Through the gloom of night to the bloom of day, 
My lady sweet and I must fare 
Till we reach the foot of my turret stair! 
Farewell, little page! 



[49] 



GUIRAUT THE TROUBADOUR 

Unto man, as in pain he plods. 

Or, heart-light, hurries along. 
The dearest gift of the gods 

Is the love of love and song! 

Unto the walls of Carcassonne 

(Ah, how the sun that morning shone 

Upon the walls of Carcassonne!) 
In russet raimentry he came 
Within whose heart love, like a flame. 

Burned ever passionate and pure, 

The while he breathed one flower-sweet name, 

Guiraut, the gallant troubadour. 

Unto the gate of Carcassonne 

(Ah, how his blithe lips smiled upon 

The warded gate of Carcassonne!) 

As light of foot as Love he strode; 

The budding blossoms by the road 
Bloomed sudden, with his song for lure. 

And softlier the river flowed 
Before Guiraut, the troubadour. 

[50] 



Along the streets of Carcassonne 

(Ah, what a harmony fell on 

The climbing streets of Carcassonne!) 

He swiftly took his singing way; 

The little children ceased their play; 
Woe seemed more easy to endure; 

Gay grew the sad, and young the gray, 
To hear Guiraut, the troubadour. 

Unto a keep in Carcassonne 
(No sweeter voice e'er drifted on 
That frowning keep in Carcassonne!) 
Anon the singer drew anigh, 
WTiereout there floated melody, — 
Song that is biting sorrow's cure, — 

Then something god-like lit the eye 
Of brave Guiraut, the troubadour. 

Into a hall in Carcassonne 
(Forsooth, hall never brighter shone 
Than that in all of Carcassonne!) 
He made him bold to enter; there 
Were men and maidens debonair, 
And one so peerless and so pure 

She flowered more fair than all the fair 
To glad Guiraut, the troubadour. 

Before that maid in Carcassonne 
(Ah, never, never lovelier shone 
A maiden's eyes in Carcassonne!) 

[51] 



He bared his head, and bowed him low; 

"Lady, the wilding winds that blow 
Brought me this wondrous word for lure, — 

To-day, to-day they bade me know 
You choose your heart's own troubadour." 

Then rose a song in Carcassonne 
(Now rose-flushed and now snowy-wan 
The loveliest cheek in Carcassonne!) 

Most marvellous, most magical; 

It caught her breathless in its thrall; 
And ah, how empty and how poor 

All others seemed, — lord's, prince's, all 
Save his, Guiraut, the troubadour! 

Two lovers bide in Carcassonne 

(Ah, happy sun, to shine upon 

Such happiness in Carcassonne!) 

And while they dream through life along, 
No woe they know, nor any wrong. 

The maid so peerless and so pure. 

And he who won her love through song, 

Guiraut, the gallant troubadour. 



[52] 



A BALLAD OF HALLOWMASS 

It happed at the time of Hallowmass, when the dead 

may walk abroad, 
That the wraith of Ralph of the Peaceful Heart went 

forth from the courts of God, 
Went forth from the paradisal ways, from the paths of 

asphodel. 
From the vistas veiled in a golden haze where the 

souls of the sainted dwell; 
And as he passed he heard the peal of the summoning 

trumpet blown. 
And he saw the cloud of witnesses go wavering by to 

the throne; 
And earthward s^^ft on a tide of joy and love he 

seemed to swim, 
For he thought of the hour when his stalwart sons 

should go to the throne with him; 
When they should stand on his either hand who had 

been his pride on earth. 
And know in the sight of the Living Light the bliss of 

a second birth. 

And so to the land he had called his own, to the realm 

he had ruled, he came, 
Where, under the spell of his gracious sway, grim war 

had been but a name, 

C 53 3 



Where the herds had strayed on the happy hills, and 

traffic roared in the mart, 
Where life had lost its cankering ills, for peace had 

flowered in the heart. 
But lo, as he looked on the harvest fields, on the ways 

of the wide-wheeled wain. 
He saw wild masses of marching men sweep over the 

pillaged plain! 
He saw no flocks on the great green slopes, no kine in 

barn or byre. 
But the sheltering thatch of the farmstead roof licked 

up by the tongues of fire; 
And the women's groans and the children's moans 

surged by him like a wave, 
And the cloudy reek of plundered towns where none 

was left to save. 

Then on he pressed to the seat of power in the crook 

of a broad sea-bay. 
Where, under the frown of the bastioned walls, the 

lines of a leaguer lay; 
In he went to the tallest tent, and sat unseen at the 

board, 
Where the fierce chiefs plotted the city's sack, each 

chief with his bared sword; 
He who sat at the council's head was the leaguer's 

grimmest one, 
And the dead king looked in his fiery eyes, and knew 

the man for his son. 

[ 54] 



So forth he went from the tallest tent, by the leaguer's 

outmost guard, 
Till he came to the moat and the mighty keep and 

the archway triple-barred; 
Not a warder's eye, as he slipped by, beheld the 

wraith of the king. 
And scarce, as he sped toward the castle gate, did he 

meet with a living thing, 
For Famine into the weedy streets had come as a 

grisly guest. 
And down from the pallid window-panes there peered 

the face of the Pest. 
He glided into the castle court, and on to the banquet- 
hall, 
Wherefrom there echoed a mirthful rouse in iterant 

rise and fall; 
He looked within for a little space, then shrank him 

back from the door. 
For he saw the face of his other son, and a painted 

paramour. 

It happed at the time of Hallowmass, when the dead 

may walk abroad, 
That the wraith of Ralph of the Peaceful Heart went 

back to the courts of God; 
And a bitterer anguish than was his few noble souls 

have known 
As he saw the cloud of witnesses go wavering down 

from the throne. 

155 2 



He passed to the high and holy place, and straight to 

the feet of Him 
About whom stand, in a shining band, the saints and 

the seraphim; 
*'I pray," he said, "that my soul may tread the dark 

of the outer way, 
That those I love may be borne above to the Hght of 

the Li\'ing Day; 
Send Thou my soul to the utmost goal of night to 

dwell therein 
That they thereby may be raised on high from the 

aT^'ful pits of sin!" 

But the Presence spake. "Remorse shall wake be- 
cause of these words of thine 

Within the breasts of the recreant ones ere another 
day decHne; 

And they shall win from the ways of sin, ere the span 
of their Hves be through, 

Because of the love of a father's heart, and the deed 
that thou wouldst do!" 

And so from the time of Hallowmass, when the dead 
may walk abroad, 

The soul of Ralph of the Peaceful Heart abode in the 
courts of God. 



[56] 



THE BLUE ARRAS 

'TwAS the night of a bitter frost 
In the vale of Bishop's Praise, 

And the face of the moon was lost 
In the gray of a spectral haze. 

The voice of the wind was whist 
Where the Hall hung over the lake, 

But the logs on the fire-dogs hissed 
Like a serpent roused in a brake. 

Rich were the walls of the room 

With the trophies of wealth and fame, 

But the Bishop cowered in the gloom 
Back from the searching flame. 

Never an eye he cast 

On all that the years had won, 
But he shrank from the sight, aghast 

At a deed that was like to be done. 

Though it stung his touch like a thorn, 
At a tiny script clutched he 

That read — "Come thou at the morn. 
Or I die on the gallows-tree!" 
[57] 



And the sign that was set thereto 
Was his only brother's sign. 

The sputtering flame burned blue, 
And the wolf-hound gave a whine. 

But still did the Bishop brood, 
As the moments sped amain, 

And his o'erwrought outer mood 
Showed the battle within his brain. 

"Tarry!" the Tempter cried; 

"Why save what has httle worth? 
'Twere better that such should bide 

Under six w^arm feet of earth! 

"TMien rancor and strife are rife, 
Forsooth, 'twere a foolish thing 
To rescue the worthless life 
Of a rebel against the King! 

"His leagues of land shall be thine 
From the plain to the eagle perch. 
And brighter thy name shall shine 
On the brow of the Mother Church!" 

Then, born of an old desire, 

The Bishop saw, as he sat. 
Take form in the core of the fire 

The red of a cardinal's hat. 
[58] 



So he said to his soul — "'Tis done!" 
And it seemed, for a breathing space, 

That the Tempter's words had won 
By the look on the Bishop's face. 

But sudden the flame shot up 

Till it set the room ashine 
Like the bowl of a crystal cup 

Aflood with the gold of wine. 

And the hangings, one and all, 

The marvel of Artois skill. 
Wavered upon the wall 

Like boughs when the wind hath will. 

Wrought on a blue as bland 

As the softest sky of spring. 
At the Bishop's own command. 

There was many a sacred thing 

All of the saints most fair 

Who had fought for the faith and bled. 
From Jesus, the Christ, were there, 

With a halo about the head. 

And lo, as the Bishop gazed, 
With the fireHght still at flood. 

Each raptured face grew hazed 
With a blurring mist of blood! 
[59] 



But every eye was clear, 

And burned like a living coal, 
And the wrathful rays pierced sheer 
To the depths of the Bishop's soul; 

While the red lips seemed to frame 
A word that stabbed like a blade, 

For he thought it the hated name 
Of him who the Christ betrayed. 

Froze in his throat the prayer 
So glib on his tongue before. 

And down from his carven chair 
Slipped the Bishop upon the floor; 

Groveled, abashed, abased, 
Shorn of each shred of pride. 

And he lay there, craven-faced. 
Till the glowing firehght died. 

But when, with their clear "God-speed," 
Rang the bells to the day new-born. 

Astride- of his swiftest steed 

Rode the Bishop to meet the morn. 



[60] 



THE MOSQUE OF THE SULTAN 

By Arabian tomes we are told 

He was just as a ruler and many 
The Caliph of Cairo the old, 

The Sultan Hassan. 

One day did he hear of the fame 

Of a builder, and straightway he said, — 

"I will mould me a mosque that my name 
May outlive me, when dead!" 

So he summoned this man to his throne. 

And issued his royal decree; — 
"Shape thou me a temple of stone 

For the years that shall be! 

"Uprear me a wonderful shrine 

Where the Faithful of Allah may bow, 

And glorious meed shall be thine. 
Here record I the vow!" 

Then the heart of the builder was light 
As was ever the heart of a man; 

And he toiled through the gloom of the night. 
And he wrought him a plan, — 

[61] 



A plan of a mosque that should bind 
His name with the name of his lord. 

So the slaves brought the marble they mined. 
And they worked in accord, 

Till the mosque as by magic upsprang 
In its symmetry flawless and grand, 

And the praise of its loveliness rang 
Through the length of the land. 

But the name of the builder was cried 
Till the Caliph grew wroth at the sound; 

"Am I naught.'^" he would mutter in pride, 
"Am I less than a hound, 

"And this chief est of upstarts so great 
He eclipses the light of my throne?" 

Thus the seeds of a pitiless hate 
In his bosom were sown. 

Now the mosque was complete. Without peer 
Was the portal, majestic and tall; 

The minarets tapering sheer 
From the sweep of the wall. 

"Call the builder!" said Sultan Hassan. 

They ran at the word of their lord; 
"My servant," he thought, as they ran, 

"Shall now reap his reward." 

[62] 



At the steps of the throne knelt the one 
Who had served Hke a slave at the soil; 

Said the Caliph, "Thy task- work is done, 
Here is meed for thy toil! 

"Stretch thy hands! I would pay thee full well!" 

The builder obeyed, in his trust; 
Then a scimitar flashed, and they fell 

Reeking red in the dust. 

"No more," said the Caliph revered, 
"I would have thee to build; I decree 

It is honor enough, by my beard, 
To have builded for me!" 

By Arabian tomes we are told 

He was just as a ruler and man. 
The Caliph of Cairo the old. 

The Sultan Hassan, 



[63] 



BALLAD OF ACHISIED PASHA 

He thought him vnse, — Achmed Pasha, — 
And he merrily laughed — ''ha! ha! ha! ha!'* 

Achmed Pasha was a doughty man, 

The ruler of every class and clan 

Where sparkling Barada rippled and ran, — 

Barada, called by the Greeks of old 

Chrysorrhoas, the stream of gold. 

And he swore one night on the steps that led 

To the tomb of Saladin — valiant dead ! — 

"By the Prophet's beard," was the oath he made, 

"Ere the closing day of the Ramadan 

Shall the cursed Christian dogs be flayed!" 

Then through the streets from gate to gate 
Crept, like a venomous snake, the word; 
And when the ears of the rabble heard, 
There was sound of the sharpening scimitar 
Under the sun and under the star; 
Arab, Turkoman, Druse and Kurd, 
How they looked alert and laughed elate 
A hungry laugh, — *'ha! ha! ha! ha! — " 
Oh, a wily man was Achmed Pasha! 

[64] 



The citron bloom, like the foam of the sea. 
Tossed in the south wind snowily, 
And he whispered, sunk in his deep divan, 
"This very night shall the flaying be!" 
\Miile through a myriad tones and tints, — 
Prismy glamours and rainbow ghnts, — 
Without the fount in the courtyard ran. 

From alley dim and from portal black, 
From sinuous lane and from cul-de-sac, 
Unmasked Murder stole, and the night, 
As far as Lebanon's purple height. 
Heard the tumult that grew and grew 
As the frenzied Moslems sacked and slew. 
And when the sanguine torch of dawn 
Out of the east o'er the desert shone, 
Damascus streets showed a deeper dye 
Than that which gleamed in the morning sky; 
And down from his casement-sill — ''ha! ha! 
The dogs are flayed!'' laughed Achmed Pasha. 

Then over the crest of Lebanon, 
And the sapphire waves of the inland main, 
Did an awful rumor rise and run 
Of thousands, aye, upon thousands slain 
To the hit of a laugh! Did he dream (ha! ha!) 
Of what he had roused, Achmed Pasha? 
Ye may cuff the cur, ye may scorn and spurn, 
But there comes a day when the dog will turn! 

[65] 



So there gathered a fleet that into the east 

Sailed and sailed till the Syrian line 

Of serried mountain peaks increased, 

The palm up-climbing to meet the pine. 

Then rank upon rank of shimmering steel 

Swept the passes of Lebanon, 

And down on the city dazed with sun 

And slaughter the vengeful legion bore, 

Nor paused in their onward swing and wheel 

Till they grounded arms at the palace door 

Where the Pasha cowered and shivered. Aha, 

What a sorry sight was Achmed Pasha! 

They reared them a gallows stanch and high 

Beneath the cope of the Syrian sky; 

And they haled him forth from his soft divan. 

This wise (or was he a foolish) man! 

And that he might have some scope for glee 

They gathered a little company 

Of his boon companions, — two or three; 

And then at a sign, — ''ha! ha! ha! ha!'^ 

They made an end of Achmed Pasha. 

The tale has a moral I'd fain attest, — 

A saying as fair as the goodliest, — 

That the man who laughs the last laughs best. 



[66] 



BALLAD OF THE EVE OF YULE 

It was hard on the tide of Yule, 

And the wind bit shrewd and sharp, 
Churning the river pool, 

And turning the deep-wood boughs. 
That were wont to droop and drowse. 
To the moaning strings of a harp. 

A snow-threat gloomed the sky. 
And with iterant, raucous caw 
A bevy of rooks went by. 
Each a seeming thing 
Of evil, ominous wing 
Flapping adown the flaw. 

Then night fell over the fen. 

And he mused, still stumbling on, 
'Out of the world of men 
Into the shades I go!" 
And he grimly laughed, when lo, 
A light on his pathway shone! 

Mine enemy's tower!" he said. 

As the beacon beckoned him. "Well, 
Succor were likely as bread 
[67] 



To be had from a shard or stone, 
Or meat from a wolf-gnawed bone, 
Or hope in the heart of hell!" 

Yet he steered him sheer on the flare. 

With a *'Here or there, 'tis one! 
A corpse in the morning air, 
Frozen as rigid as steel, 
Or a form on gibbet or wheel, — 
What matters it how 'tis done!" 

He clanged a summons clear. 

Keeping his grip on hate; 
And he wavered not to hear 

A word from a tongue abhorred, — 
Then back swung the outer ward. 
And his enemy stood in the gate. 

Eyes upon burning eyes 

Hung, as when war-fires rule 
Under the angry skies; 

Then, ere the wrath-flame died, 
"Welcome," his enemy cried, 
"For this is the eve of Yule!" 

Into the banquet-hall 

He was bid as a chosen guest; 
And there before them all 

Did his enemy give him meat. 
And bread of the finest wheat. 
And golden wine of the best. 
[68] 



(< 



Then he was brought to a room 

Where rugs were soft on the floor. 
And a fire made fair the gloom; 

And, warned with a stern behest 
Of the sacred rights of a guest, 
A guard was set at the door. 

Through the black night-watches long 

Did he wait on sleep, but when 
Came the peal of the matin-song 

No slumber had kissed his brow; 
So he girded himself, for now 
The sunlight lay on the fen. 

Then once more did his foe 

Proffer him drink and food; 
Forth to the court below 

Did his enemy lead the way, 
Where, as one for a fray. 
Chafing, a charger stood. 

Hate! — it is burned into shame; 

Scorn! — of myself is the scorn; 
Blame! — I confess to the blame; 
Vengeance is thine!" he said, 
And, with averted head. 
He rode out into the morn. 



[69] 



THE LURE OF THE ORIENT 



ALLAH IL ALLAH 

I CAN remember the morn upon Aya Sofia's dome, 
The magical sheen of the morn, — 
Allah il Allah! 
Azure and rose and gold, and white like the flower of 
the foam, 
Over the Golden Horn; 
Allah il Allah! 

I can remember the noon o'er the Minaret of the 
Bride, 
The shimmering swoon of the noon, — 
Allah il Allah! 
And the scent of the orange groves, and the sparkle of 
Barada's tide. 
And the nightingale's rapturous croon; 
Allah il Allah! 

I can remember the eve o'er the crumbling tombs of 
the kings. 
The tremulous shades of the eve, — 
Allah il Allah! 
And the waving of palms by .the Nile like the stir of 
mysterious wings, 
And the rushes that murmur and grieve, 
Allah il Allah! 

[73] 



I can remember the night o'er the wastes of the desert 
afar. 
The violet vasts of the night, — 
Allah il Allah! 
And the rhythmical breath of the sands, and the 
pilgrims who steer by the star. 
And the moon at its silvery height, 
Allah il Allah! 

I can remember the call, the call of the Faithful to 
prayer, 
The quavering, wavering call, — 
Allah il Allah! 
And the heart of an exile goes out, and I long, oh, to 
be there! 
I am bond; I am gyved; I am thrall 
Allah il Allah! 

Yes, the spirit harks back to its own, will follow the 
lure to the end, 
The capturing, rapturing hope, — 
Allah il Allah! 
Till the dusk, inescapable, fall, and the ultimate dark- 
ness descend, 
And the portals of Paradise ope, 
Allah il Allah! 



[74] 



OUT OF BABYLON 

As I stole out of Babylon beyond the stolid warders, 
(My soul that dwelt in Babylon long, long ago!) 

The sound of cymbals and of lutes, of viols and re- 
corders, 
Came up from khan and caravan, loud and low. 

As I crept out of Babylon, the clangor and the 
babel. 
The strife of life, the haggling in the square and 
mart, 
Of the men who went in saffron and the men who 
went in sable. 
It tore me and it wore me, yea, it wore my heart. 

As I fled out of Babylon, the cubits of the towers 

They seemed in very mockery to bar my way; 
The incense of the altars, and the hanging-garden 
flowers. 
They lured me with their glamour, but I would not 
stay. 

We still flee out of Babylon, its vending and its 
vying. 
Its crying up to Mammon, its bowing to Baal; 

[75] 



We still flee out of Babylon, its sobbing and its sigh- 
ing, 
Where the strong grow ever stronger, and the weary 
fail! 

We still flee out of Babylon, the feverish, the fretful, 
That saps the sweetness of the soul and leaves but a 
rind; 
We still flee out of Babylon, and fain would be forget- 
ful 
Of all within that thrall of wall threatening behind! 

Oh, Babylon, oh, Babylon, your toiling and your 
teeming, 
Your canyons and your wonder-wealth, — not for 
such as we! 
We who have fled from Babylon contented are with 
dreaming, — 
Dreaming of earth's loveliness, happy to be free! 



[76] 



A DESERT SONG 

Strange was his garb, just a thing of tatters; 

Strange was his lute, with its rude^ rough strings; 
Strange was his voice, but, forsooth, what matters 
If the minstrel touches the heart when he sings! 
And while over us, like a cresset, hung 
The star of love, thus the minstrel sung. 

Love, you come as the swallows 

Out of the far away, 
Out of the dream-dim hollows 

Beyond the night and the day. 

Like a lotus flower your face is. 

Bright as the moon is bright, 
And you make the desert places 

A vision of lost dehght! 

Your blushes are filched from under 

The skin of the pomegranate; 
Your eyes are like wells of wonder; 

Your lips bear the words of fate! 

You banish brooding and sorrow, 
And the djinns of black despair, 

[ 77 ] 



And we fain would forget to-morrow 
In the shadow of your hair. 

He ceased, and we heard the camels moaning. 
And the jackals bark, as the night grew long; 

And then to the desert wind's intoning 

We sleptf and dreamed of the minstreVs song! 



[78] 



AL MAMOUN 

Bagdad's palms looked tall in the tide 
Of Tigris, tawny and swift and wide; 
Bagdad's minarets gleamed and glowed 
In the sun that burned in its blue abode; 
Bagdad's life made rumble and jar 
In booth and highway and bright bazaar; 
Bagdad's monarch lolled in the dusk 
Of the citron shade, 'mid the scent of musk, 
WTiile around him sat the makers of rhyme. 
Come from many a distant cHme, 
For song by him was held as a boon, 
Al Mamoun, 
The son of the great HarounI 

From lands of cold and lands of the sun 
He hearkened the poets, one by one, 
Giving a portion of praise to each. 
And a guerdon of gold w^th his pearls of speech; 
Spreading a luscious banquet there 
In the languid, richly-perfumed air; 
Plucking from Luxury's laden stem 
The royal wealth of its fruit for them; 
Bidding the soul of the grape be brought 
To kindle the fancy to happy thought; 
Speeding the amber afternoon, 
Al Mamouriy 
The son of tJie great Haroun! 
[79] 



And on through the starHt purple hours 
The sound of song was heard in the bowers; 
The zither and lute would blend and blur 
And tangle with notes of the dulcimer; 
And above and over and through it all 
Would soar and swell, or would fail and fall, 
With the dreamful lull of the dying word, 
An ecstasy voiced from the throat of a bird. 
So, leashed by the love of song, v^^ould he. 
Praising the poets and poesy, 
Linger till night had neared its noon, 
Al Mamoun, 
The son of the great Haroun! 

With crumbling mosque and with toppling tomb 
Have vanished Bagdad's beauty and bloom, 
While a far, faint breath on the lips of fame 
Is all we know of the monarch's name. 
But rather to him than his mightier sire 
O'er gulfs of time shall the song aspire, 
For song to the lover of song is due, 
Though centuries darken with rust, and strew 
With mosses the marble above his head; 
And so, in the land of the happy dead, 
May song still stir with its blissful boon 
Al Mamoun, 
The son of the great Haroun! 



[8o: 



THERE WAS AN ARCH AT BANIAS 

There was an arch at Banias, 

A gateway builded royally, 

Whereon was graved for man to see, — 
For every traveler that might pass, — 

O'er all beneath the wheeling sun 

There rules supreme one Allah, — one! 

Crumbled that arch at Banias, 

No more than shard or shattered stone 
Round which the mountain winds make moan; 

Yet still, howe'er the ages pass, 
O'er all beneath the wheeling sun 
There rules supreme one Allah, — one! 



[81] 



THE TOMB OF BIZZOS 

(Syria) 

O'er Bizzos, son of Pardos, when he died, 
A skilKul builder reared a noble tomb, 
Toiling until it marked the very bloom 

Of his rich art, — a work that has defied 

For years unnumbered time's relentless tide. 
Its rare perfection lifts the pall of gloom 
From death, and we forget the pallid plume 

On dome and door, the unknown sculptor's pride. 

Bizzos, the son of Pardos ! — worthy man, — 
So the inscription o'er the portal shows; 
And yet, — and yet, — ah, curious irony 
That he, and not the marvellous artisan 

Whose genius through each line of marble glows. 
Should have achieved to immortality! 



[82] 



A SYRIAN MEMORY 

Do you recall that night at Kerf Hawar, 

The still air fragrant with some soft perfume, 

And the refulgent glory of one star 

High in the sky above old Nimrod's tomb? 

The gushing stream by which we loved to rove, 
The slowly-rising moon's enamored tale, 

And in the quiet of the poplar grove 
The tuneful passion of the nightingale? 

The wastes wide-reaching where the jackals cried, 
And phantom figures seemed to come and go. 

And o'er us, like a monarch in his pride, 
Majestic Hermon with its crown of snow? 

The slender maiden of mysterious guise, 
The beauteous one who bore the water- jar. 

And all the orient witchery of her eyes, — 
Do you recall that night at Kerf Hawar? 



[83] 



MOONLIGHT IN THE DESERT 

We saw the moon ascend the skies 
As though to music chorded deep, — 

Sweet, super-earthly harmonies 

Swept through the great, cahn halls of Sleep. 

Then in ethereal equipoise 

It seemed to hang, a bubble blown 

Of tenuous gold, as pure as joy's 
First ecstasy in Eden known. 

And lo, a miracle! for all 

That arid waste, compact of gloom, 
And unto desolation thrall. 

Was as a garden girt with bloom. 

Topaz and veined amethyst 

The paths that wended up and down; 
And in a veil of violet mist 

The distances appeared to drown. 

Despite we knew that dawn would show 
But hideous sand-bUght to our eyes. 

So strong the spell it was as though 
We stood in Allah's paradise. 
[84] 



IN THE GRAND BAZAAR 

In the Grand Bazaar of the Damascenes, 

With its violet lights and purple sheens, 

And sifting in from the outer air 

The shimmer of amber here and there. 

You may touch through sight and sound and scent 

The very heart of the Orient! 

Come, then, comrade, and let us drift 

With the human tides that part and shift 

And surge and jostle, and taste the thrill 

Of life that smacks of the desert still. 

And keeps some glimmering ghost of the state 

Of the glamoured days of the CaHphate! 

Haughty of mien and rich of dress. 
Saunter the Lords of the Wilderness — 
(Mark the pride of Bassan Beni, 
Sheik of a wide oasis he) — 

With their camel's-hair head-ropes bound with gold 
Over silvery kerchiefs fold on fold! 
Sellers of sherbet and sellers of sweets. 
Venders of spices and milk and meats. 
Water-bearers, with cheery chants. 
Droning dervishes, mendicants, — 
Such is the mesh that the motley means 
In the Grand Bazaar of the Damascenes! 

[85] 



And when the chaffer and din are done. 
And the sun dips down behind Lebanon, 
And the last of the pilgrim feet has trod 
Through Bawabet Ullah, the Gates of God, 
And there's never a sign of a veiled face. 
Nor a proud Pasha (by Allah's grace!) 
Then what a pageant from Timur dow^n 
Passes this pathway of old renown, — 
Spirits out-stolen from Paradise 
To wander aw^hile in their earthly guise, 
While night, with her spangled mantle, leans 
O'er the Grand Bazaar of the Damascenes! 



[86] 



A NILE NIGHT 

The wind has died; to-day we sail no more 
O'er river reaches widening bright or wan; 

Languid we He beside the reedy shore, 
And night draws darkly on. 

In no wise strange or pagan would it seem 
To Pasht or Isis now to bend the knee, 

There broods about us, in day's paling beam, 
Such vast antiquity. 

Yonder a sacred ibis, grave as faith, 
Stands like a statue by the river brink; 

And mark! is that a Libyan lion's wraith 
Come to the stream to drink.'* 

A wandering minstrel pipes a plaintive strain. 
Then slowly, sadly lets the music swoon; 

While, like a lovely lotus, once again 
Flowers the Egyptian moon. 

And so to rest, and visions weirdly clear 

Of priests, of kings, of gods with hoof and horn, 

To rouse at last from dreams wherein we hear 
Great Memnon greet the morn! 

[87] 



STARS OVER EGYPT 

We are the orbs eternal 

Lighting the outer void, 
Blossoms forever vernal, 

Aster and asteroid; 
Isis and Osiris 

And Ammon, what are they? 
They are as marsh fire is; 

We are for aye and a day! 

The Serapeum solemn. 

The Sphinx with brooding fid, 
Capital and column, 

Pylon and pyramid, 
Memnon's silenced singing 

Under the dawning ray, — 
They are as swallows winging; 

We are for aye and a day! 

When ne'er a pharos flaming 

Brightens the whelmed earth. 
When man shall have done with naming 

The creatures of mortal birth. 
When all the creeds have crumbled 

As crumbles the potter's clay. 
We shall abide unhumbled; 

We are for aye and a day! 
[88] 



FLOWING WATERS 

Waters flo^^ng under the magic moonlight, 
You bring back from out of the past's dim vistas, 
Out of starry vasts and of purple spaces 
Memories golden! 

I can see the rills of the Pharpar gliding 
Over sands that glow with the ghnt of amber, 
Over pebbles hued hke the chrysoberyl, 
Agate and opal! 

I can catch the scent of the rose and jasmine, 
Catch the drowsy drift of the burning poppies, 
\Miere the gardens (almond, citron, pomegranate) 
Girdle Damascus! 

I can hear the immemorial burden 
Falling as it fell from the Kps of Atys, — 
The ecstatic, rapturous, passion-laden 
Voice of the bulbul! 

Flow, then, waters, under the magic moonlight! 
Bear me out through night and its purple spaces. 
Flood my sense and soul till they overflow with 
Memories golden! 
[89] 



THE MISER 

By night he sits and gloats upon his hoard, 
The treasures of far lands; fine fabrics spun 
On looms beneath an oriental sun; 

Rugs whereupon proud viziers have adored 

At the muezzin-call; strange trinkets scored 

With delicate fret- work; dazzHng diamonds won 
Where Afric's wastes stretch desolate and dun; 

And perfect pearls profuse before him poured. 

A golden glamour on the sumptuous sight 
The lamplight casts, and the old miser's eyes 
Tell how his soul is slave beneath the spell. 
He does not dream, as half reclined he lies, 
That just behind him stands, with falchion bright. 
The summoning death-angel, Azrael. 



[90] 



SYRIAN LOVE SONG 

By Barada the citron now 

Displays its cloud of bloom; 
By Barada the almond bough 

Is like a lovely loom; 
And with a tide of gold unrolled 

The meadows sweep and swell; 
By Barada, by Barada, 

Behold the asphodel! 

By Barada pomegranate fires 

With hues of sunset vie; 
By Barada the lilt of lyres 

Upon the wind goes by; 
And in the vale the nightingale 

Lifts its immortal tune, 
By Barada, by Barada, 

Beneath the sun and moon! 

By Barada from crest to crest 

Red gleams the cinnabar; 
By Barada on night's blue breast 

Warm glows the passion-star; 
Afar the teeming strife of life, 

A flood forgotten, flows; 
By Barada, by Barada, 

Flowers love's eternal rose! 
[91] 



AT SAMARIA 

We climbed the hill wherefrom Samaria's crown 
In marble majesty once looked away 
Toward Hermon, white beneath the Syrian day; 

And lo, no vestige of the old renown, 

Save a long colonnade, bescarred and brown. 
Remained to tell of Herod's regal sway, — 
The gold, the gauds, the imperial display. 

He heaped on Judah's erewhile princely town. 

Ruin was riotous; decay was king; 

An olive root engripped the topmost stone 

As though it clutched and crushed the thing 
called fame; 
Seemed as a fragile wind-flower petal, blown 
Into the void, the past's vain glorying. 
And Herod but the shadow of a name! 



[92] 



THE WINDS OF LEBANON 

The winds blow out of Lebanon adown the slopes and 
valleys, 
The golden winds of Lebanon, the blue day long; 
And over olden Lebanon above the cedar alleys 
The mighty sun goes marching to the echo of their 
song ! 

The winds blow out of Lebanon from vine and myrtle 
closes, 
The silver winds of Lebanon, the blue night long; 
They bear the scent of cinnamon, they bear the scent 
of roses, 
And the host of stars goes marching to the echo 
of their song! 

The winds blow out of Lebanon with ne'er a sound 
of chiding, 
The wooing winds of Lebanon, the whole year long; 
The winds blow out of Lebanon, where love has its 
abiding. 
And my heart is ever marching to the echo of 
their song! 



[93] 



A DESERT VISION 

I RODE the desert spaces 

That billowed vast and "v\'ide, 
And immemorial faces 

Came down the twilight- tide; 
I crouched the blue night under, — 

The planet-sown abyss, — 
Held by the haunting wonder 

Of great Semiramis. 

All others failed and faded, 

But she shone as of old. 
Her purple hair thick-braided 

With dull Assyrian gold; 
Her robes had woven glories 

Diaphanous but bright; 
Her red lips hinted stories 

Of manifold delight. 

Her deep eyes kept repeating 

Runes whereof love was theme; 
Her round arms reached entreating 

To ecstasies of dream; 
Then burst the moon in flower. 

The vision slipped away. 
But I had for an hour 

Been king in Nineveh! 
[ 94 ] 



TYRIAN DYES 

Tyre's ruined walls are but as shards or sand; 

Fallen the soaring tower, the stately fane, 
And yet through all the lovely autumn land 

The Tyrian dyes remain. 

So, seeing how the aster-purples gleam, 

And the wild sunflower flaunts its golden fire, 

Transported on the magic wings of dream, 
The mind goes back to Tyre; 

Back to the bales high-heaped upon the quays, 
Rich-colored fabrics for the far-off shores; 

Back to the deep, full-freighted argosies. 
With their tall banks of oars; 

Back to the looms, and to the maids and men 
Who wrought thereon for the wide world's desire; 

Back to the splendor so long vanished when 
Hiram was king of Tyre! 

From the watch-tower upon the parapet 

No warder calls now at the midnight's wane, 

For all is dearth and desolation, yet 
The Tyrian dyes remain. 

[95] 



OFF CHIOS 

Cleaving the sea-drift through the star-lit night, 
We left the barren Patmian isle behind, 
And veering northward, with a favoring wind, 

Lay anigh Chios at the dawn of light. 

The shore, the tree-set slopes, the rugged height. 
Clear in the morning's roseate air outlined, — 
This was his birthplace who, albeit blind. 

Saw tall Troy's fall, and sang the tragic sight. 

Resting within the roadstead while the day 
Grew into gradual glory, on the ear 

Continuous broke the surge-song of the brine; 
And as we marked it rise, or die away 

To rise again, it seemed that we could hear 
The swell and sweep of Homer's mighty line! 



[96] 



A PRAYER CARPET 

I KNOW not when in Daghestan 
He lived, the skillful artisan 
Who wove, in some mysterious way, 
This fabric where the colors play 
Across the woof in rainbow chase, 
Or meet and Hnk and interlace. 

Nor do I know what suppUant knees 
Once pressed these yielding symmetries, 
The while the turbaned brow was turned 
Toward Mecca, and the soul that yearned. 
Borne by the rapt muezzin cry, 
Soared, bird-like, up the tranquil sky. 

But this I know, — foot ne'er shall press 

Its worship-hallowed loveliness. 

For still about it dumbly clings 

A subtle sense of holy things, 

And woven in the meshes there 

Are strands of vow and shreds of prayer. 

With kindling morning beams the sun 
Its blended beauty shines upon; 
The mosque domes catch the rays, and lo. 
In loitering lines the camels go! 
[97] 



A fountain flings a prismy jet; 
A palm-tree cuts a silhouette. 

But when night lids the eye of day, 
And sunset glories fade away. 
My fancy shapes a fervent man 
From shadows on the Daghestan. 
Thus, in its compass small, I see 
The Orient in epitome! 



[98] 



THE WHISPER OF THE SANDS 

Night, and the golden glory of the moon 
Above the undulant sweep of desert lands, 

And borne o'er dusky dale and shimmering dune 
The whisper of the sands! 

Faint as the faintest ripple on the shore 
Of Nile that holds its enigmatic spell; 

Faint as the dawn-wind where tall palm-trees soar, 
Or murmur in a shell! 

Faint and inscrutable, freighted with the breath 
Of ages that have long, long ceased to be; 

Weighted with mysteries of birth and death, 
Time and eternity! 

And so I linger till the night grows old 
And the rose-blossom of the morn expands, 

And hear these ceaseless marvels manifold, — 
The whisper of the sands! 



[99] 



FLOWERS 

Over each Syrian hillslope, 

And up each Syrian glen. 
Behold the billows of poppies, 

Lupin and cyclamen! 

Here swayed the mightiest armies, 

A turbulent human flood, 
And here the innocent meadows 

Were dyed with innocent blood! 

Darius and Alexander, — 

Conquered and conqueror! 
How the flowers, the faithful flowers. 

Follow the feet of War! 



[ 100] 



Night and the desert and the quenchless stars, — 

Unfathomed mysteries, — 
The door whereto no mortal key unbars, 

Lo, all things change but these! 

Night and the desert and the quenchless stars, — 

/ who have known your spell, 
Shall I, one day, when Death's dark door unbars. 

Learn the unfathomable? 



C 101 J 



THE LYRIC QUEST 



THE FLUTES OF APRIL 

Don't you hear the flutes of April calling clear and 

calling cool 
From the crests that front the morning, from the 

shaded valley pool, 
Runes of rapture half forgotten, tunes wherein old 

passions rule? 

Passions for the sweet earth beauty hidden long and 

hidden deep 
Underneath the seal of silence in the vasts of w^inter 

sleep. 
Now unleashed and now unloosened once again to 

pulse and leap! 

Don't you hear the flutes of April, like the ancient 

pipes of Pan, 
Summoning each slumbering kindred, summoning each 

drowsing clan. 
Sounding a far-borne reveille to the laggard heart of 

man! 

Bidding every seed to quicken, bidding every root to 

climb, 
Thrilling every thew and fibre as with some ecstatic 

rhyme, 

[105] 



Setting floods of sap to dancing upward in triumphant 
time! 

Don't you hear the flutes of April blowing under sun 

and star, 
Virginal as is the dawning, tender as dim twilights 

are. 
With the vital breath of being prisoned in each 

rhythmic bar? 

With their lyric divination, prescience of all things 

fair. 
With their magic transmutation, guerdon for each soul 

to share. 
Don't you hear the flutes of April wafted down the 

April air? 



[106] 



THE WONDER-WORKER 

Who is the worker, the worker of wonder, 
Abroad in the blue and the gold of the morn? 

The heart o' me whispers that over and under 
Each moment are rapture and ecstasy born. 

There's a glint in the rain that goes sweeping and 
striding 
The levels and crests, and it lilts as it goes; 
There's a hint in the blossoms half peering, half 
hiding, 
Of the tint that shall flush on the leaf of the rose. 

But yesterday all earth seemed barren and sterile; 

And, save for the wind. Nature's voices were mute, 
Now every wide slope waves in undulant beryl, 

And forest and rill have the lips of a flute! 

Who is the worker, the worker of wonder. 

The touch of whose hand has enkindled the sod. 

Brought life out of death, cleft the silence asunder? — 
The spirit of Spring, yea, the spirit of God! 



[107] 



WINTER IN THE MARSH 

I STRODE through the depth of the marsh in the stark 
winter-tide of the year; 

The pools were as glass, and the grass was umber and 
shriveled and sere; 

And the trees waved their skeleton arms in the whirl 
and the swirl of the flaw. 

While around there was never a sound save the crow 
with its ominous "caw"; 

The land seemed the land of the lost, of despair, deso- 
lation and dole. 

And its gloom, like an evil at night, crept into the 
room of my soul. 

Then a word, like a bird in the dusk, when the 

shadows have mantled the hill. 
Made a song, — just a word, — but I felt the dead 

heart in me tremble and thrill. 
Thrill to life, and my fibres and thews were as those 

of one ready to leap. 
For I knew, on a sudden, the dolor was but as the 

blessing of sleep. 
The slumber of sod and of rush and of fern and of 

leaf on the tree. 
And they waited but only the word to burst from 

their bonds and be free. 
C 108] 



And the word, it shall come on a day when the wmd 
shall blow up from the south, 

With the winnow of shimmering wings, and a slim 
pipe of gold at its mouth; 

It may be at droop of the dusk, or it may be at lift of 
the sun. 

But all of earth's tendrils shall quicken, and all of 
earth's waters shall run. 

God moulded the word, and He spake it to be a 
transfiguring thing, 

A joy in man's ears, and a symbol eternal, the magi- 
cal "Spring!" 



C 109] 



THE CROCUS FLAME 

The Easter sunrise flung a bar of gold 

O'er the awakening wold. 

What was thine answer, O thou brooding earth, 

What token of re-birth, 

Of tender vernal mirth, 

Thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold? 

Under the kindling panoply which God 

Spreads over tree and clod, 

I looked far abroad. 

Umber the sodden reaches seemed and sere 

As when the dying year. 

With rime-white sandals shod. 

Faltered and fell upon its frozen bier. 

Of some rathe quickening, some divine 

Renascence not a sign! 

And yet, and yet. 

With touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret, 
The lyric South amid the bough-tops stirred. 
And one lone bird 
An unexpected jet 

Of song projected through the morning blue, 
As though some wondrous hidden thing it knew. 

[110] 



And so I gathered heart, and cried again: 

**0 earth, make plain. 

At this matutinal hour. 

The triumph and the power 

Of hfe eternal over death and pain, 

Although it be but by some simple flower!" 

And then, with sudden light, 

Was dowered my veiled sight, 

And I beheld in a sequestered place 

A slender crocus show its sun-bright face. 

O miracle of Grace, 

Earth's Easter answer came, 

The revelation of transfiguring Might, 

In that small crocus flame! 



[Ill] 



APRIL MUSIC 

The lyric sound of laughter 

Fills all the April hills, 
The joy-song of the crocus, 

The mirth of daffodils. 

They ring their golden changes 
Through all the azure vales; 

The sunny cowsHps answer 
Athwart the reedy swales. 

Far down the woodland aisleways 
The triUium's voice is heard; 

The little wavering wind-flowers 
Join in with jocund word. 

The white cry of the dogwood 
Mounts up against the sky; 

The breath of violet music 
Upon the breeze goes by. 

Give me to hear, O April, 
These choristers of thine 

Calling across the distance 
Serene and hyaline, 
[112] 



To clear my clouded vision 
Bedimmed and dulled so long. 

And heal my aching spirit 
With fragrance that is song! 



[113 1 



THE VOICE 

Over the woodland's western walls 

In the dawn there's a voice that calls, — 

Calls some sweet inscrutable thing, 
And sets my feet to wandering! 

Why I fare I do not know. 
Nor by what devious paths I go. 

But I must up and out and away. 
Vagrant, vagabond, estray, 

Thrall to the voice that calls and calls 
Over the woodland's western walls! 

Time is but as sand in the glass 
Where I loiter and where I pass; 

Time is but as the thistle-drift. 

Tossed on the winds that sing and shift. 

More to me is the wayside flower 
Than all of grandeur and all of power. 
C 114] 



Haply I have been summoned to see 
Where Hfe's dearest treasures be! 

Haply I must learn again, 

Through stress and sacrifice and pain. 

To know that the things of largest worth 
Lie close to the throbbing heart of earth! 



[115] 



VINTAGE 

From out the bondage of the town 
I will go up, I will go down, 
Along untrod, untrammelled ways. 
And give God praise; 

Praise for the rue, praise for the sweet. 
He spreads before my faring feet, 
For, whatsoe'er the vintage be. 
It is for me! 

Vintage of vine and fern and flower. 
Vintage of sun and striding shower. 
Vernal, vespernal, blue or white. 
Or chrysolite, 

It matters not, for it is mine, — 
Essence eternal and divine 
From the all-bounteous wine-press trod. 
The wine of God! 



[116] 



THE VAGRANT 

Upon my lips the breath of song. 

Within my heart a rhyme, 
Howe'er time trips or lags along, 

I keep abreast with time! 

With flush of crimson on its wings, 
The morning mounts the sky; 

A swallow soars, a blue-bird sings, 
A buoyant wind goes by. 

I take the open path; I shake 
All shadows from my mind; 

In rippling mead, in waving brake, 
A virile joy I find. 

The noon is like a brimming bowl; 

While on my way I win, 
I throw wide ope my thirsting soul 

And drink the warm light in. 

When comes the eve, in purple dressed, 

Across the hills afar, 
I press unto my yearning breast 

The rapture of a star. 
[ 117] 



And with the night, the soothing night, 
I drift down drowsy streams, 

And reach at last, to my deUght, 
The golden bourn of dreams. 

Oh, on my lips the breath of song. 

And in my heart a rhyme, 
Howe'er time trips or lags along, 

I keep abreast tviih time! 



[118] 



MY CATHEDRAL 

I KNOW a pathway through the pines 
Where, when the sun declmes, 
The shadows take on dreamy hues, 
Deep violets and blues. 

And there is incense that beguiles 
Borne down the pillared aisles 
From unseen censers, fragrant rites 
Of hidden acolytes. 

And there is music full and fair 
Upon the dusking air. 
As though there were an organ grand 
Played by a master hand. 

This my cathedral is. I crave 
No other architrave 
Than this majestic vaulted span 
Shaped by no skill of man. 

Here are my holy altars; here. 
Prayerful I may revere, 
Feeling about me flutterings 
As of angeHc wings. 

[ 119 ] 



For well I know God walks the wood 
Clad in beatitude; 

In light and shade and sound I sense 
His loving imminence. 

And when I go I take with me 
Peace, hope, humiHty; 
And when I pass I leave behind 
Doubt, and the darkened mind. 



[ 120 3 



MAY MAGIC 

In the under-wood and the over-wood 

There is murmur and trill this day, 
For every bird is in lyric mood, 

And the wind will have its way. 
It is wren and thrush and the robin-gush, 

And the flute of the vireo, 
And when there's a pause, and when there's a hush. 

The wind, now loud, now low! 

On the under-leaf and the over-leaf 

There is shimmer of dye this day. 
For oh, the hues beyond belief 

On shoot and bough and spray! 
There are all the tints that the rainbow glints, — 

King-cup loved of the bee, 
Violet, triUium, beryl mints, 

And the pink anemone! 

In the under-air and the over-air 

There is wonder abroad this day; 
The whole wide face of the world is fair 

With the magic of the May; 
For the breath of God has kindled the sod, 

And swept the skies along, 
Till every branch is an Aaron's rod. 

And every sound a song! 

C 121] 



THE ETERNAL PRESENCE 

I HAVE watched tlie glow on the morning skyline 
When the kindling spring from out of the palm-isles 
Came, with lilt of lutes and with touch of timbrels. 
Winged as the swallow. 

Summer I have seen o'er the fertile loam-lands 
Spread its gleaming gold and its burnished amber, — 
Barley, wheat and rye in the soft winds waving. 
Ripe for the reapers. 

I have walked with autumn down through the 

orchards, 
Where lay heaped the fruit with its veins of crimson. 
Globes that vied with all of the hues of sunset, 
Harvests ambrosial. 

Winter I have known, with its shroud of silence. 
Vestal, virginal, clad in its arctic ermine. 
When the midnight brightened the frosty sky with 
Torches auroral. 

Just the shifting sands in the Year's great hour-glass. 
Turned by Time who works at the Master's bidding, 
"WTiere we mark, if we look with eyes unclouded. 
The Eternal Presence! 

[ 122 ] 



THE LUTE-PLAYER 

There came at eve an ardent lute-pIayer 
Who stood before an open casement long, 
And breathed impassioned strains so sweet and 
strong 

That the enamored breezes ceased to stir. 

The vesper-thrushes, choiring in the fir. 

Grew silent one by one, a raptured throng; 
Intent upon the burden of the song, 

It was as though the night turned worshiper. 

Then over me a sudden thought there swept 
Of the young shepherd who, without a fear. 

Played on his harp to soothe the mind of Saul; 
And, as the moonlight through the lattice crept, 
I seemed to see before me, ghostly clear, 
A jeweled javelin quivering in the wall! 



[ 123 ] 



DIVINITY 

How can there be 

Dearth of divinity 

Whiles that we have resurgence of the sod, — 

The quickened clod, 

The flowering dogwood-rod, — 

That yields the gold of such rich treasury 

To the adventurous bee! 

In shower and shine. 

In muted pine tops or in boughs that breathe 

Raptures of choric tone. 

In ferns that wreathe 

The stricken bole or moss-incrusted stone, 

In the swift pulses of the stream. 

In star-gleam or moon-gleam. 

In cloud and storm. 

In nature multifold and multiform, 

Lo, if ye heed, ye may behold the sign 

Of the Divine! 



[ 124 ] 



TRUANT FEET 

What would you do, I bid you say, 

With feet that will not keep the way. 
But ever go a-wandering, 
Like any vagrant, wilding thing, 

Or be it dawn or dusk of day? 

They needs must leap each upland stile, 
Let every glade or copse beguile. 
And, leisurely as noon, explore 
The curvings of each riUet's shore 
Thick-set with cress and camomile. 

A crest is Uke a rainbow lure 

Unto a child; a wood is sure 
To lead them into windings far 
From beam of sun or gleam of star 

To secresies the trees immure. 

Ah, youth is fair, and youth is fleet. 
And all God's fields and woods are sweet! 
Why set a bond, why set a snare, 
Howe'er or wheresoe'er they fare, 
About the tracks of truant feet.'* 

C 125 ] 



AT THE GRAVE OF POE 

Spring's glow and glamour over Baltimore 
Above the green God's acre where he lies. 

The sunlight, amber as some fabled ore. 
And the ethereal blue of vernal skies. 
He who so long since solved the great surmise, 

And haply now tunes an immortal lyre 
(He who could tune a mortal lyre so well) 
With the rapt Israfel, 

And the celestial choir. 

As white as snow the marble of his tomb 

Against the climbing ivy on the wall; 
No cypress bough, with its unhallowed gloom, 

Here flings its sombre shade funereal; 

Even the church-tower, turreted and tall, 
Speaks not of dolor, and the slender spines 

Of arbor-vitse tell of life, not death, 

The life that quickeneth 
His immemorial lines. 

Yet he was phantom-haunted; eldritch things 
Peopled the silent chambers of his brain; 

Forevermore the winnow of dark wings 

Beat round about him, as when autumn rain 
Is hurtled by wild gusts against the pane. 

[ 126 ] 



Weird wraiths companioned him, but none the less. 
Amid the forms of ghoul and ghost and gnome, 
Figures were wont to roam 

Of light and loveliness. 

His was the master's magic; every chord 
He touched gave forth a throb of melody; 

No music welled whereof he was not lord, 
Whether he sang some city by the sea. 
Or some strange palace built in Faery; 

He wove the spell of immaterial chimes 
Into his fabric; e'en the midnight bird 
An unforgotten word 

Breathed through his charmed rhymes. 

He walked with shadows, and yet who shall say 
We are not all as shadows, we who fare 

Toward one dim bourn along life's fateful way. 
Sharing the griefs and joys once his to share 
Who passed erewhile to that fair Otherwhere 

Beyond the poignancy of bliss or woe! 

There hangs the immitigable pathos of dead years, 
High hopes bedewed with tears. 

About the grave of Poe. 



[ 127 ] 



WORKERS 

Out of the formless clay the potter moulds his urn; 
Out of the block, rough hewn, the sculptor shapes 
his dream; 
Through the blend of the painter's hues the dyes of 
sunset burn. 
And the tints of morning gleam! 

Out of the mobile word the poet weaves his rhyme, 
As the toiler at the loom watching the shuttle fly, 

And lo, there comes a song to lilt in the ear of Time 
As the years go winging by! 

If ye but bring the zest, the passion-fire at heart. 
If ye but feel the glow, if ye but know the thrill. 

All of the wonder-world awaits but the worker's art, 
Waits but the worker's will! 



[ US ] 



WANDER SONG 

Calling, calling, and ever calling, 
That's the way with the wander-will, 

Be dawn at break, or be twilight falling, 
Behind the crest of the lonely hill! 

The wind's a lure, and the moon has voices. 
And *come!' says the song of the water's flow, 

And whatsoever at heart my choice is, 
I needs must rise, and I needs must go. 

Out and away, then, again a rover 

As far as the sound of the outland seas, 

And whenever the round of my life be over 
Little to lay on the great God's knees. 

And yet, and yet, when the quest is ended. 
Under the span of the vast blue sky. 

It has all been virile and vital and splendid, 
And what may a mortal do but die! 

Calling, calling, and ever calling. 

That's the way with the wander-will. 
Be dawn at break, or he twilight falling. 

Behind the crest of the lonely hill! 
[ 129 ] 



HARMONIES 

The Berecynthian flute, 

The lovely Lydian lute, 

The clear Arcadian pipe 

That, when the vernal noons were lush and ripe. 

Bore melody's golden fruit, 

Lo, these are mute! 

But still the nightingale 

Lifts its enamored voice in Tempe's vale. 

And still in ilex boughs the south wind sigheth 

Along those storied shores 

Where swart Ionian boatmen ply the oars. 

For music never dieth! 

And in our new Atlantis of the West, 

Anigh its hidden nest. 

The furtive forest thrush 

Pierces the twilight hush 

With haunting gush, 

To which, from out its overburdened breast. 

Some eremite in ecstasy reply eth. 

From eve to eve, from dawn to vermeil dawn, 
The harmonies of earth roll ever on and on! 



[130] 



SPENDTHRIFTS 

Lithe of foot, blithe of foot, thus we go a-wandering. 

Luting it, fluting it, many a path upon; 
All the hoard of night and day open for our squan- 
dering. 
Spendthrifts of the silver stars, spendthrifts of the 
sun. 

Light of heart, bright of heart, no care for our tether- 
ing. 
Ambling on, rambling on, with no dream of gain; 
Frolicking, rollicking, whatsoe'er the weathering 
Spendthrifts of the treasure winds, spendthrifts of 
the rain. 

Gay of guise, gray of guise, little heed we all of it. 
Laughing on, chaflfing on, rule of rose or rime; 

Children of old Grandam Earth, raptured by the 
thrall of it. 
Spendthrifts of the golden hours, prodigals of time! 



C 131 ] 



SONG IN MARCH 

I SING the first green leaf upon the bough. 
The tiny kmdHng flame of emerald fire, 

The stir amid the roots of reeds, and how 
The sap will flush the briar. 

I sing the sweeping beryl on the slopes. 
Ephemerae that come before the bees, 

The ferns renascent, and the virgin hopes 
Of pale anemones. 

I sing the dream's unfolding, and I sing 
The chrysalis broken by the ice-freed shore, 

The clear air winnowed by the bluebird's wing. 
And April at the door! 



C 132 ] 



THE CUP 

Life, the revealer, mixed a draught, 
And brimmed a cup for me; 

I raised it to my Hps and quaffed 
The whole unquestioningly. 

For be the brew or peace or strife, 

The wine or joy or pain, 
The inescapable cup of life 

We each and all must drain. 



C 133 ] 



PUSSY-WILLOWS 

To-day I saw a child go down the street 
Smiling, with pussy-willow buds in hand; 

The downy catkins opened for my feet 
The gates of fairy-land. 

And through them I strayed backward, wandering 
Along the rillside paths that once I knew, 

Finding in those first heralds of the spring 
A childish rapture, too; 

Gone all too quickly! And yet how it cheers 
The faltering spirit thus to be beguiled. 

To feel beneath the heavy weight of years 
The glad heart of a child! 



C 134 ] 



TWELFTH NIGHT SONG 

Heaped be the fagots high, 

And the half-burned bough 
From last year's revelry 

Be litten now! 
Brimmed be the posset bowl 
For every lusty soul; 

And while the maskers rule, 

Cry *Noel!' cry 'Noel!' down all the halls of Yule! 

O eager viols, thrill! 

Pipe, hautboys, clear and sweet! 
Work your impetuous will. 

Ye restless feet! 
For every lip — a glass ! 
For every lad — a lass ! 

And, ere the ardors cool. 

Cry 'Noel!' cry 'Noel!' down all the halls of Yule! 



[135] 



SOUL TO BODY 

And thus my Soul unto my Body said. 

With strenuous hardihead; — 

"Hear thou this word! 

The guests that thou wert wonted to invite 

For eye, or ear, or for sweet Hp-deUght, 

Shall not within this house be harbored! 

I have been midnight-mute, and not demurred, 

Alas, too long! 

Henceforward shall I sternly ward the door. 

To any knocking there, attaint with wrong. 

Ready to cry, *No more!' 

Albeit fond famiUars, fair of face. 

Come smilingly, they shall not step within, — 

Beauty, nor Blithesomeness, nor vernal Grace, — 

If these are but the glozing cloak of Sin! 

Clean-swept are all the rooms, and garnished greenly. 

And set about with Purity's white flower; 

There sitteth Peace serenely 

From the clear stroke of this renewed hour; 

Hereafter shall be incense lifted only 

To that pure Love which knoweth no alloy; 

And thou, O Body, thou shalt not be lonely 

With thy new comrade — Joy!" 

[ 136] 



SUNFLOWERS 

My tall sunflowers love the sun, 
Love the burning August noons 

When the locust tunes its viol, 
And the cricket croons. 

When the purple night draws on. 
With its planets hung on high. 

And the attared winds of slumber 
Wander down the sky, 

Still my sunflowers love the sun. 

Keep their ward and watch and wait 

Till the rosy key of morning 
Opes the eastern gate. 

Then, when they have deeply quaffed 
From the brimming cups of dew. 

You can hear their golden laughter 
All the garden through! 



[ 137 ] 



THE HEIGHTS 

Hail to the heights that bid me cUmb, 

Or capped with green, or white with rime! 

Ever they hold out lures of hope 

To lead me on from slope to slope; 

And though when I the crests have won 

There be no meed to seize upon, 

Effort my sure reward shall be. 

The striving and the mastery. 

So, as I journey on with time, 

I hail the heights that bid me climb! 



[ 138 ] 



MAY BY AVON-SIDE 

Now should you stray by Avon-side 

This Maytime of the year, 
In Charlecote Park will sing the lark. 

And roam the fallow deer; 
And the white plume of hawi:horn bloom, 
The fair web of earth's wonder-loom. 

Make lovely Warwickshire! 

And should you stray through Stratford streets 
When home the good folk throng, 

And shadows flit, and lights are lit 
The winding ways along, 

From out the casements open thrown, 

A-down the twilight breezes blown, 
Will soar the sound of song! 

And should you stray through Trinity close 

To bow in praise or prayer, 
Where elm trees braid their shine and shade 

In the soft Avon air. 
Whether it be by stream or street. 
Or where the minster arches meet. 

His spirit will be there! 
C 139] 



Shakespeare, of the immortal phrase. 
Of deathless rhythm and rhyme. 

Above the transitory days 
Still radiant and sublime. 

The glory of whose fame and name 

Is limned as by a torch of flame 
Upon the walls of Time! 



C 140 ] 



BEAUTY 

A SHRED of sunset cloud, a prismy shell. 
The lily's urn, the rose's crucible, 
Herein lies beauty, with its magic spell. 

An autumn leaf afloat upon the wind, 
The delicate flush upon the peach's rind. 
Herein lies beauty, if ye be not blind. 

Glint of a bird's wing, sunlight on the spray, 
Deep in love's eyes the tender, answering ray. 
Herein lies beauty — cherish it for aye ! 



C 141] 



A VOYAGER 

A CLOUD across the sunset 
Floats like a crimson sail, 

And I am fain to follow 
Along the shining trail, 

A voyager of the spirit. 

Impatient of delay, 
Seeking the end of sorrow 

Beyond the end of day. 

From some far port celestial 
I yearn to hear, "Ahoy!" 

And rest therein forever 
Communicant with joy! 



[ 142 ] 



A YOUNG POET 

I SEE him in the morning flush, 
No outlook dark, no prospect dim, 

And wonder what the twiUght hush 
Will bring to him. 

Ideals burn along his way 

As burned the Alexandrian flame 
When wanderers of an elder day 

To Egypt came. 

Hopes are like vernal violets now. 
Yea, Uke the golden daffodil! 

He dreams not of the barren bough, 
The silent rill. 

The path is vague, the path is long. 
And at the end the severed chord! 

Yet the true devotee finds song 
Its own reward! 



[ 143] 



TWILIGHT SONG 

The wind's in the bracken. 
The wind's in the fir; 

The leaves of the oak boughs 
Make tremulous stir; 

The hills in the twilight 
They purple, they blur. 

The moth's at the roses 
Its longing to slake; 

A last plaintive thrush-note 
Drifts up from the brake; 

A pale path of silver 
Lies long on the lake. 

The gray shadows lengthen. 
The gray shadows creep; 

What secrets the night has 
To cherish and keep! 

How softly she holds them 
And folds them in sleep! 



[ 144 ] 



THE QUIET WOOD 

I HAVE in memory a quiet wood 

Where silence has its altars, and the air 

Seems hallowed, hushed as though it were for prayer. 

Sacred to restfulness and solitude. 

And when upon my mind grave cares intrude, 
Into these blessed depths I fain would fare 
For meditation, haply plucking there 

The herb of solace for each bitter mood. 

Then I emerge refreshed. I bear away 
Somewhat of the serene content of trees. 
The unexplainable largesse of flowers; 
I walk exalted through a larger day. 

And know at night the guerdon of the hours 
Is deeper faith and wider sympathies. 



[ 145 ] 



OMENS 

The poplar and the aspen tree 
Silver expectantly; 
The spinning whirligigs of dust 
Dance as though driven by a goad 
Along the sinuous length of road. 
The wagon couplings groan and creak. 
And from afar the raucous peacocks shriek. 
The ancient vane, an arrow streaked with rust, 
Trembles and veers 
As though it shook with fears; 
Gray streamers, twisted and entwined 
Like elf-locks, blur the spacious blue. 
Strange whispers, stealthy as the feet of night. 
Creep in upon the wind. 
And drift away as fades some phantom crew 
Into the moonless murk of lonely seas. 
Birds dartle low, with quavering, startled cries; 
Hushed is the hum of bees. 
The cattle huddle; mottled butterflies 
Clutch at the mullein and the milkweed stalk; 
The hovering hawk 

Wings arrowy to woodward, and swart Drouth, 
Triumphant in its tyranny so long. 
Takes flight before the rain-bestowing South 
Whose touch to earth is soothing as a song. 

[ 146 ] 



AN AUTUMN PILGRIM 

He takes the open path at dawn, 
With golden lures to lead him on, — 
The truant wind's low murmurings. 
The surge of southward-sweeping wings. 
He sees the gentian by the brook 
Cast back at him an azure look. 
And marks above the soft green sod 

A pirouetting butterfly, 
Like a blown shred of goldenrod, 

Go drifting by. 

He tastes the brew that Robin Hood 

Once quaffed within the ancient wood, - 

The aromatic essences 

Of beechen and of balsam trees; 

And feels an ardor run along 

His veins, and stir his lips to song, — 

A simple strain of reedy mirth, 

Echoes of airs Arcadian, 
Full of the ecstasy of earth, 

The joy of Pan. 

He thrills to hear the crickets croon 
Beneath the arches of the noon, 
C 147] 



When the red harvest-promise smiles 
From all the fruited orchard aisles; 
And gleans more glory from the hues 
That on the hill slopes flame and fuse, — 
Senses in them a stronger spell 

Than in the radiant dyes that glow 
On canvases by Raphael 

And Angelo. 

And if the dusk and dewfall find 
Him still unhoused, he knows them kind. 
Like the Hght touch of tender hands; 
And through the quiet autumn lands. 
Accompanied by dreams, he goes, 
His spirit filled with sweet repose; 
Then on the bosom of the west 

A fair beam beckons from afar, 
A guerdon, and a guide to rest, — 

One pilgrim star! 



L 148 ] 



REWARD 

If so be the dawn withhold 
Something of its flooding gold, 
If so be the noon refuse 
Something from its brimming cruse, 
If so be the eve repress 
Something of its tenderness, 
Shall I, clothed in doubt and pride. 
Cry my meed has been denied? 
Nay, but let me rather rise 
Toward that hour of certainties 
When my merit cup shall be 
Filled with what is due to me! 



C 149 ] 



THE MYSTERY 

A LITTLE stirring of the mold, 
A little green, a little gold, 
And lo, from out the umber earth. 
Life's mystery of birth! 

A little stirring of the mold 
To cover something spent and old. 
And lo, with fleeting of a breath. 
Life's mystery of death! 



[150] 



ALTARS 

Mankind of old reared altars on the hills. 
And made burnt offerings, and chanted prayers 
Unto the Unseen Spirit, for the heights. 
The winds, the vasts of the untrammeled sky. 
Seemed nearest to Divinity, but we, — 
We know that God is in the riven depths 
Of canyons, in the wood's green fastnesses. 
Yea, on the broad breast of the whelming sea, 
And rear our holiest altars in the heart! 



[151] 



WHO KNOWS THE MASTER MAKER'S MIND 

Who knows the Master Maker's mind, 
\\Tio knows the Master Maker's art. 

That shaped the wings that are the wmd, 
And moulded red the rose's heart? 

We mark new marvels every day; 

New wonders every day we find; 
Yet who, in all our clan of clay, 

Who knows the Master Maker's mind? 



[152] 



HONEYCOMBS 

Within the cIover*s crimson cells 
The brown bee finds delectables. 
And, gathering, he bears them home 
To store within the honeycomb 
Against the chill of barren days. 
When white drifts gird the clover-ways. 

Observant of the toiler bee. 
May we not learn philosophy? 
Nor let the sweetnesses that lie 
Wide spread beneath God's open sky 
Neglected and ungarnered go. 
At dawn-break and at even-glow. 
But store them in a place apart. 
That honeycomb which is the heart! 



C 153] 



THE PLAYHOUSE OF DREAMS 

While the blue dawn-wind by us streams, 
And clouds of evening move or mass, 

We dwell in our Playhouse of Dreams, 
Where visions gleam as in a glass. 

The puppets pass, the puppets pair. 
Acting in varied guise their parts. 

With comic or with tragic air, 
And all the old unchanging arts. 

And though like wraiths they fade and flee, 

Yet very real each actor seems, 
For 'tis the play of Life we see 

Dwelling in our Playhouse of Dreams! 



[ 154 ] 



SHIPS 

Whither, O barques that plough the plunging brine 
On wide adventure, whither do you fare? 
Down dim horizons through the sparkling air 

I mark your slowly lessening hulls decline. 

Seek you far ports below the distant line, 
Rio or Argentine, or do you dare 
The perils of the Horn, and hope to share 

Pacific seas, where palm fronds shift and shine? 

You know not what awaits you, glow or gloom, 
The peaceful homing, or the deep sea doom; 

The haven, or the reef in its white lair; 
So do I question on the sea of life, 
That ocean of commingled calm and strife. 

Whither, O mortals, whither do you fare? 



C 155 1 



ORACLES 

Before the birth-song of the Galilean 

Thrilled through the spheres afar, 
Long ere the echo of that sweet peace psean 

Was borne from star to star, 

Men sought from prophets, priests, and statues 
graven. 

To gain some gleam of light 
That should illume the future's pathway, paven 

With shadows dark as night. 

Deep in the heart of Libyan deserts arid 

Was Ammon's altar reared. 
And long and patiently the pilgrims tarried 

To list the voice they feared. 

The laureled Pythian priestess of Apollo, 

From hills that Delphi crown. 
Inspired by breathings from her cave's black 
hollow. 

Sent her weird visions down. 

Dodonian oaks, through which low tongues seemed 
crying 
To every wandering breeze, 

[ 156 ] 



Drew, by their power of wondrous prophesying, 
Strange folk far over seas. 

Happy were they who dreamed of no deceiving, 

WTiate'er the worshiped shrine, 
Who Hved undoubting hves out, still beUeving 

In tokens sibylline! 

Shall we, who bow before the one eternal 

And gracious Godhead, hold 
In scorn what they deemed sacred in those vernal 

Sweet Grecian days of old? 

Nay, nay, for while its lustrous Hght outflinging 

Clear gleams the morning star. 
The vocal trees, the free birds' rapturous singing, 

Will be oracular! 



C 157] 



I HAVE SEEN BEAUTY 

I HAVE seen beauty where the hills of spring 
Lifted against the morning's flooding gold, 

Enrobed as with divine appareling. 
Haloed and aureoled. 

I have seen beauty where the summer slopes 
In rose and flaming poppy dipped away 

To valleys hung with sunset, like rich hopes, 
At the decline of day. 

I have seen beauty where the autumn woods 
Spread their resplendent arras to the breeze, 

Wherefrom the sense gained new beatitudes. 
And undreamed harmonies. 

I have seen beauty where the winter skies 
Pulsed with the pale auroras from the pole. 

Above wide fields that to the wondering eyes 
Were like a stainless scroll. 

I have seen beauty in the gloom and glow, 
Upon the earth, in the engirdHng air. 

Till deep within my heart of hearts I know 
Beauty dwells everywhere. 
[ 158] 



THE APIARY 

Here the winged honey seeker 
Pours from out his brimming beaker 
Clover essences, and fine 
Nectar from the columbine. 
Here is found the rare fulfilment 
Of ambrosial distilment. 
Ne'er was more delicious hoard 
From Olympian chalice poured, — 
Burden from the lily cell; 
Guerdon from the pimpernel; 
Filchment from the larkspur tall, 
And the rose imperial! 
Who, at such divine delight. 
Would not turn a Sybarite! 
Linger o'er the attared cup 
Till the latest star be up! 
Join in rouse and revelry 
At the Tavern of the Bee! 



C 159] 



THE CALL OF THE HH^LS 

I LIST its sound in the night, 
The surge song of the sea; 
I mark it, a welter of white 

Or gray with the driven rain; 
I watch it broad and bright, 
A sapphire harmony, — 

But the hills call and the rills call, so it's 
ho, for the hills again! 

The ships go wavering by, 

And fade on the faint sea rim; 
Graceful the white gulls fly. 

Their cry like a far refrain; 
The low wind comes like a sigh 
From the outer islands dim, — 
But the hills call and the rills call, so it's 
ho, for the hills again! 

I turn my back on the foam, 

On the long curved line of shore, 
On the dunes and the reedy loam 
And the murmur of the main; 
Oh, the hill man seeks his home 
As the sailor the ocean's roar! 

Hark! the hills call and the rills call, so it's 
ho, for the hills again! 
I 160 2 



LIFE 

Sentient from out the illimitable void. 

With darkness palpitant, into a space 

Concave, with vasts of scintillating blue. 

And peopled by innumerable forms, 

Was I cast groping. Overhead an eye 

Of dazzling fire depended, and there rose 

Murmurs of voices multitudinous. 

And sound of wind and waters. Then the light 

Failed, and above upon the gloom were pricked 

Irradiant sparks, and slowly there upclomb 

A luminous spectral disc. Again the fire; 

Agaiu and yet again the ghostly orb; 

And aye the sound of voice and wind and wave! 

Now was I stung with cold, now scorched with heat; 

Now racked with pain, now swept with ecstasy. 

Then suddenly, and ere I was aware 

WTiat meant the ceaseless shuttle, — the great void! 

And, as I passed, a whisper — " That was Life! '* 



[161] 



THE FISHERMAN 

A MANY men there be that go. 
Free footed, wandering to and fro 
Athwart God's open, sun-kissed ways. 
Their hearts o'erbrimming with the praise 
Of all the wilding things that are 
Beneath the steadfast sun and star; 
And foremost of this roving clan 
I love the ardent fisherman! 

He carries still within his breast 
An incommunicable zest, 
A fervor that may never tire, 
A flame unwavering, a desire 
Unquenchable as is the dawn, 
That leads him on and ever on; 
And though he*s fain of spoil, at root 
His primal passion is pursuit! 

His pulses throb and thrill to feel 
The vibrant whirring of his reel; 
Elation fills him when he spies 
Upon his line the gleaming prize; 
Yet when the sunset embers burn 
Low in the twilight's purple urn, 
C 162 ] 



And he has no reward to show, 

Is he dark-browed and doleful? No! 

Another day, another hour, 
Fortune may yield her shining shower! 
Still in his bosom bides the lure 
As fixed as is the cynosure. 
It is the striving, not the gain, 
That lifts us to the loftiest plane; 
The quest, although we miss the goal. 
That stays the fibre of the soul! 

And so, whate'er his class or clan, 
I love the ardent fisherman! 



[163] 



AN AUTUMN SONG 

Slow reddening dawns, and early purpling eves 
Lit by the glamour of the vesper star; 

Under the noon a wind that faintly grieves 
Behind the hills afar. 

A surge of hastening wings toward distant seas 
Beneath the azure of the tropic day; 

O'er all the land resplendent tapestries 
That fade like dreams away. 

Beauty about us in alluring guise. 

Her radiant path by golden gossamer crossed, 
And yet at heart, perceived in subtle wise, 

A sense of something lost. 



[ 164 ] 



DUST 

Tiny atoms of dust 

Wavering down the wind! 
And they might have been the heart of the rose, 
Or the fragrant drift of apple-snows, 

Or the quince's cloven rind. 

Beauty flees as a dream 

When the morning twilight wanes. 
Fades like the harvest aureole, 
But ever the fragile, breathing soul 

Of loveliness remains! 



c i(w: 



AT THE FALLING OF THE LEAF 

When I behold the red leaf fade and fall 
And the lush grasses to dull umber turn, 
WTien the green fronds have withered on the fern, 

And bare vines lie along the orchard wall, 

I am like one who from a festival, 

Where bright lights toss and fragrant spices burn, 
And rich wines sparkle in the brimming urn, 

Retreats into the night and hears the call 

Of something imminent on earth, in air. 
Some portent, omen, sign or prophecy 
Of things calamitous that are to be; 
One who goes forward shaken and aware, 
While darkness spreads its vast veil everywhere, 
In nature's death of our mortahty. 



[166] 



DUSK 

Her feet along the dewy hills 

Are lighter than blown thistledown; 

She bears the glamour of one star 
Upon her violet crown. 

With her soft touch of mothering, 

How soothing to the sense she seems! 

She holds within her gentle hand 
The quiet gift of dreams. 



C167] 



AUTUMN IN THE BEECH WOOD 

We to the beechen wood will go. 
While the hale winds of morning blow. 

To taste of idleness awhile, 
And let life's troubled currents flow 

Afar from our enchanted isle. 

There shall be naught to mar our mood 
Within the calm and cloistral wood; 

An immaterial wizard's wand 
Will fill us with beatitude 

From crimson leaf and yellowing frond. 

There shall be speech enough for us 
In the faint thrush note tremulous. 

In the low twittering of the wren; 
Earth's loveliness, made conscious thus. 

Will flood the sense and soul again. 

The imminence we shall descry 
Of spirit wings that wander by 

Upon serene celestial ways. 
And be uplifted, you and I, 

Above our transitory days! 

[ 168 ] 



SANCTUARY 

Let us put by some hour of every day 

For holy things ! — whether it be when dawn 

Peers through the window pane, or when the noon 

Flames, like a burnished topaz, in the vault, 

Or when the thrush pours in the ear of eve 

Its plaintive monody; some little hour 

Wherein to hold rapt converse with the soul. 

From sordidness and self a sanctuary. 

Swept by the winnowing of unseen wings. 

And touched by the White Light IneflFable! 



[ 169] 



NOW NO BIRD SINGS 

Now no bird sings 

On the beechen spray. 
And no leaf clings 

To the ashen briar; 
But upon a day 
Not far away 
There'll be winnow of wings 
And a crimson fire, 
God's hand at play 
On the loom of May, 

God's hand at play on the lyre! 



C 170 ] 



THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 

Flamelike upon the mountain's cragged face 
Glowed the Great Carbuncle; beneath the noon 
A rival to the sun's eye, and when night 
Unfolded all the spangle of its stars, 
A crimson lure that leaped from ledge to ledge. 
Glinted like dancing marsh-fires through the trees. 
Climbed the sheer heights, and hung above the crest 
A beckoning splendor. 

To the vale below 
At shut of summer twilight came the Man, 
And raised amazed eyes, for while the shades 
Empurpled all the valley, far o'erhead 
Flamelike upon the mountain's cragged face 
Glowed the Great Carbuncle, and burned and shed 
A double sunset. Through his midnight dreams 
Pulsed the irradiant vision, as a forge 
Pulses what time the metal's molten mass 
Gushes from out its maw. And when the dawn 
Flowered, and he saw his dream was not a dream. 
Haste hung upon his footsteps while he fared 
Up still and up, like many another led 
By the false gleam of avarice. In his brain 
Lights leaped and throbbed, — rich imageries of power 
Like those that swept the thought of Tamerlane 

[171] 



And Alexander, — the broad world his fee 
Could he but grasp the jewel. So he came. 
As none had come in all those elder days, 
Though nameless ones had striven madly, where 
Flamelike upon the mountain's cragged face 
Glowed the Great Carbuncle. 

His trembling arms 
Outyearned to clasp the cincture of the stone, 
When, like a breathing thing, it loosed and leaped 
From the bedrock, cleft, as the lightning cleaves, 
A deep-girthed pine bole, then the awaiting lake 
Embosomed it forever, while the Man 
Stared, fraught with frenzy, then too poised and 
leaped. 

Now in the wan late watches of the moon 
Mysterious ripples as of ruby run 
Across the hill-hid waters, nor are lost 
Until they mingle with the rose of morn. 



[ m] 



SOLI DEO GLORIA 

In middle heaven a form behold; 
Fair-aureoled 

Her shapely brow with noon-bright gold; 
Soli Deo Gloria! 

Upon a little cloud she stands, 
Within her hands 
A tympanum with scarlet bands; 
Soli Deo Gloria! 

Thereon she playeth without fault, 
While up the vault 
Her voice makes silvery assault, — 
Soli Deo Gloria! 

Till, blended with her soaring notes, 
Adown there floats 
An echo from a myriad throats, — 
Soli Deo Gloria! 

An angel she of God's own choir. 
Whose one desire 

Is higher yet to chant, and higher, — 
Soli Deo Gloria! 
C 173 ] 



And every year, upon the morn 
When Christ was born 
Within the manger-bed forlorn, — 
Soli Deo Gloria! 

'Tis hers to bid song's raptures run 
From sun to sun, 

And hst to earth's low antiphon, — 
Soli Deo Gloria! 

Would that our praise might swell and rise 
Along the skies, 

And scale the gates of Paradise, — 
Soli Deo Gloria! 

Bearing, with more complete accord, 
Unto the Lord, — 

Forevermore our watch and ward, — 
Soli Deo Gloria! 



[ 174 3 



THE WIND BEGUILETH ALL 

The wind beguileth all; 

Elusive lisper, 

Hear him whisper, — whisper, — whisper, — 

Mellow in rise and eloquent in fall! 

He plays the lover, 

With bird-like poise and dart and hover. 

Lipping forevermore a madrigal. 

White Janivere, or sapphire June, 

Autumnal days, or hour Aprilian, 

A golden tune 

He breathes, as from the ancient pipes of Pan. 

wandering troubadour, 
Ever evasive. 

Still penetrant, persistent and persuasive, 

1 love to lie and listen to your lure! 
For now I know the lotused marges 
Of the mysterious Nile, 

Where, in the time long dead, the deep-oared barges 
Moored 'neath the shadow of some kingly pile; 
And now I am aware of some fair garden 
(Ah, radiant span!) 
That hath for warden 
The rose of Ispahan; 

C 175] 



And now I am transported 

By fluctuant melodies 

To where the drowsing coral isles are courted 

By the warm arms of Austral-Asian seas. 

Dawn-flush, noon-languor, eve's purpureal 
PaUor behind the hiU-crests, if it faU 
Upon attuned ears, — the earth-old caU, — 
The wind, the minstrel wind, beguileth all! 



[ 176 ] 



DAFFODIL TIME 

It is daffodil time, so the robins all cry, 

For the sun's a big daffodil up in the sky, 

And when down the midnight the owl calls "to- 

whoo!" 
Why, then the round moon is a daffodil too; 
Now sheer to the bough-tops the sap starts to climb. 
So, merry my masters, it's daffodil time! 

It is time for the song; it is time for the sonnet; 

It is time for Belinda to have a new bonnet, 

All fashioned and furbished with things that are fair, 

To rest like a crown on her daffodil hair; 

Love beats in the heart like the pulse of a rhyme. 

So, merry my masters, it's daffodil time! 

It is time when the vales and the hills cry "Away! 
Come, join in the joy of the daffodil day!" 
For somewhere one waits, with a glow on her face, 
With her daffodil smile, and her daffodil grace. 
There's a lilt in the air, there's a cheer, there's a chime. 
So, merry my masters, it's daffodil time! 



[ 177] 



WOOING SONG 

'TwAS at the marge of summertide, ere mowers made 

the hay, 
When the sweet breath of eglantine blew up the 

meadow- way; 
The south- wind to its tender lute made many a mellow 

vow; 
"It's time to be a-wooing!" sang the red-bird on the 

bough; 
"Sooth, if you wish to woo her, why, you'd better 

woo her now!" 

Ripe red the wilding strawberries were growing in the 

grass; 
"Oh, bending daisy blooms," said I, "and did you see 

her pass?" 
They nodded and they nodded, and they nodded once 

again. 
And there she was a-coming at the turning of the 

lane; 
My heart was fleeter than my feet, although my feet 

were fain. 

Her smile was like the break o' dawn — (I'll give you 
just a clue!) 

[178] 



Her eyes, her hair, her cheeks, — but there, no simile 

will do! 
I clasped her willing hands in mine — (what little 

hands she had!) 
The red-bird kept a-chor using; the very trees were 

glad; 
Aye, all the world was gay that day around one lass 

and lad! 



C 179] 



STRAWBERRIES 

Again the year is at the prime, 

With flush of rose and cuckoo-croon; 
Care doffs his wrinkled air, and Time 
Foots to a gamesome tune. 

So, ho, my lads, an' if you will 
But follow underneath the hill, 

It's strawberries! strawberries! 
You shall feast, and have your fill. 

The elder clusters promise wine 

WTiere dips the path along the lane; 
The early lowing of the kine 
Floats like a far refrain. 

You will forget to dream indeed 

Of fruit that Georgian loam-lands breed 

In strawberries! strawberries! 
That wait for us in Martin's mead. 

Then haste, before the sun be high, 

And, haply, catch the morning star. 
For, ere the cups of dew be dry. 
The berries sweetest are. 

And if, perchance, a rustic lass 
In merriment a-milking pass, 

It's strawberries! strawberries! 
On her Hps as in the grass. 
[ 180] 



AT DARLEY DALE 

(eighteenth century song) 

At Darley Dale the hedges 

Are vocal all with birds 
That sound their loving pledges 

In Uttle silvery words; 

At Darley Dale the herds 
Are sleek and fat and fine; 

I stand and gaze and watch them graze; 
Oh, would these herds were mine! 

At Darley Dale the flowers, 

They look such happy things; 
Above their heads the showers 

Pass by on rainbow wings; 

At Darley Dale there clings 
Rich verdure to the vine; 

Rose, violet and mignonette, — 
Oh, would these blooms were mine! 

At Darley Dale there hovers 

About no cloud of cares, 
And lasses and their lovers 

Go up and down in pairs; 

At Darley Dale the airs 
Of each maid seem divine; 

And there is one I dote upon, — 
Oh, would this maid were mine! 
[181 ] 



Come, Courage, come, and take me hy the hand! 
I have a long and weary way to go. 
And what may be the end I do not know, — 

I do not understand. 

Come, Courage, come, and take me hy the hand! 

Be thou my mentor! Be my guide and stay! 

The path is one I may not fare by day; 
It leads through night's dim land. 

Come, Courage, come, and take me by the hand! 

Gird me with faith, the radiant faith to see 

Beyond the darkness immortality; 
Thus may the gulf he spanned. 
Come, Courage, come, and take me hy the hand! 



[ 182] 



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